THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 


SAMMY  LANE 

Tht  Shepherd  9J  the  Hilb 


THE  SHEPHERD 
OF  THE  HILLS 

A  SHOVEL 


BY 

HAROLD    BELL    WRIGHT 

AUTHOR  ur 

"THEIR  YESTERDAYS" 

"THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH" 

ETC.,   ETC. 


With  Illustrations  by 
F.  GRAHAM    COOTES 


A.    L.    BURT    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT.  1907. 
BY  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

COPYRIGHT.  1907. 
BY  ELSBERY  W.  REYNOLDS 

PUBLISHED.  SEPTEMBER.  1907 


TO  FRANCES,  MY  WIFE 

IN  MEMORY  OF  THAT  BEAUTIFUL  SUMMER 
IN  THE  OZARK  HILLS,  WHEN,  SO  OFTEN, 
WE  FOLLOWED  THE  OLD  TRAIL  AROUND 
THE  RIM  OF  MUTTON  HOLLOW— THE  TRAIL 
THAT  IS  NOBODY  KNOWS  HOW  OLD— AND 
FROM  SAMMY'S  LOOKOUT  WATCHED  THE 
DAY  GO  OVER  THE  WESTERN  RIDGES. 


481734 


"That  all  with  one  consent  praise  new-born  gawds, 
Tho  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past, 
And  give  to  dust  that  is  a  little  gilt 
More  laud  than  gilt  o'er-dusted" 

TROILUS  AND  CRESS  ID  AO    ACT  3:  Sc. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

THE  Two  TRAILS  (Introductory)  11 

I.     THE  STRANGER 15 

II.     SAMMY  LANE 23 

III.  THE    VOICE    FROM    OUT    THE 

MISTS     29 

IV.  A  CHAT  WITH  AUNT  MOLLIE.  .      36 
V.     "JEST  NOBODY"    44 

VI.  THE  STORY 54 

VII.  WHAT  Is  LOVE  ? 65 

VIII.  WHY  AIN'T  WE  GOT  No  FOLKS  ?     74 

IX.  SAMMY  LANE'S  FOLKS 81 

X.  A  FEAT   OF   STRENGTH  AND  A 

CHALLENGE 86 

XI.  OLLIE  STEWART'S  GOOD-BY.  ...     97 

XH.  THE  SHEPHERD  AND  His  FLOCK  104 

XIII.  SAMMY  LANE'S  AMBITION 113 

XIV.  THE  COMMON  TELLER  KIND  . .  .   123 
XV.  THE  PARTY  AT  FORD'S 134 

XVI.     ON  THE  WAY  HOME 113 

XVII.     WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THE  RANCH  150 

XVIII.     LEARNING  TO  BE  A  LADY 164 

XIX.     THE  DROUGHT 168 

XX.     THE  SHEPHERD  WRITES  A  LET 
TER  .  .172 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I-AGB 

XXL     GOD'S  GOLD 179 

XXII.  A  LETTER  FROM  OLLIE  STEWART  183 

XXIII.  OLLIE  COMES  HOME 190 

XXIV.  WHAT  MAKES  A  MAN 199 

XXV.     YOUNG  MATT  KEMEMBERS 207 

XXVI.     OLLIE'S  DILEMMA 215 

XXVII.     THE  CHAMPION 224 

XXVIII.     WHAT  PETE  TOLD  SAMMY 232 

XXIX.  JIM  LANE  MAKES  A  PROMISE.  .    239 

XXX.     SAMMY  GRADUATES 244 

XXXI.     CASTLE  BUILDING 249 

XXXII.     PREPARATION    255 

XXXIII.  A  EIDE  IN  THE  NIGHT 260 

XXXIV.  JIM  LANE  KEEPS  His  PROMISE.    269 
XXXV.  "I  WILL  LIFT  UP  M!NE  EYES 

UNTO  THE  HILLS" 276 

XXXVL     ANOTHER   STRANGER 284 

XXXVII.     OLD  FRIENDS 294 

XXXVIII.     I  AIN'T  NOBODY  No  MORE 302 

XXXIX.     A  MATTER  OF  HOURS 312 

XL.     THE  SHEPHERD'S  MISSION 316 

XLI.  THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STORY.  321 

XLII.  THE  WAY  OF  THE  LOWER  TRAIL  330 

XLIII.     POOR  PETE 332 

XLIV.  THE    TRAIL    ON    THE    SUNLIT     . . 

HILLS    337 

XLV.     SOME  YEARS  LATER.  .    344 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Drawn  by 
F.  GRAHAM  COOTES 

PAGE 

SAMMY  LANE Frontispiece 

*       *       *       AND  WHEN  HE  COMES " 62 

THEN   THE   THREE   FRIENDS     *     *     *     WENT 

DOWN  THE  MOUNTAIN  SIDE  TOGETHEE Ill 

L  WAIT  FOE  THE  MOON  HEEE" ._....   342 


INTRODUCTORY. 

« 

THE  TWO  TRAILS. 

HIS,  my  story,  is  a  very  old  story. 

In  the  hills  of  life  there  are  two  trails. 
One  lies  along  the  higher  sunlit  fields 
where  those  who  journey  see  afar,  and 
tne  light  lingers  even  when  the  sun  is  down ;  and  one 
leads  to  the  lower  ground,  where  those  who  travel, 
as  they  go,  look  always  over  their  shoulders  with 
eyes  of  dread,  and  gloomy  shadows  gather  long  be 
fore  the  day  is  done. 

This,  my  story,  is  the  story  of  a  man  who  took  the 
trail  that  leads  to  the  lower  ground,  and  of  a  woman, 
and  how  she  found  her  way  to  the  higher  sunlit  fields. 

In  the  story,  it  all  happened  in  the  Ozark  Moun 
tains,  many  miles  from  what  we  of  the  city  call 
civilization.  In  life,  it  has  all  happened  many,  many 
times  before,  in  many,  many  places.  The  two  trails 
lead  afar.  The  story,  so  very  old,  is  still  in  the 
telling. 

"Preachin'  Bill"  who  runs  the  ferry  says,  "When 
God  looked  upon  th'  work  of  his  hands  an'  called  hit 
good,  he  war  sure  a  lookin'  at  this  here  Ozark  country. 
Rough  ?  Law  yes !  Hit  war  made  that  a  way  on  pur- 

11 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

pose.  Ain't  nothin'  to  a  flat  country  nohow.  A  man 
jes  naturally  wear  hisself  plumb  out  a  walkin'  on  a 
level  'thout  ary  down  hill  t'  spell  him.  An'  then 
look  how  much  more  there  is  of  hit!  Take  forty 
acres  o'  flat  now  an'  hit's  jest  a  forty,  but  you  take 
forty  acres  o'  this  here  Ozark  country  an'  God 
'Imighty  only  knows  how  much  'twould  be  if  hit  war 
rolled  out  flat.  'Taint  no  wonder  't  all,  God  rested 
when  he  made  these  here  hills ;  he  jes  naturally  had 
t'  quit,  fer  he  done  his  beatenest  an'  war  plumb  gin 
out." 

Of  all  the  country  Bill  had  seen,  "from  Ant  Creek 
Head  t'  the  mouth  of  James  an'  plumb  to  Pilot 
Knob,"  he  "'lowed  the  Mutton  Hollow  neighborhood 
was  the  prettiest." 

From  the  Matthews  place  on  the  ridge  that  shuts 
in  the  valley  on  the  north  and  east,  there  is  an  Old 
Trail  leading  down  the  mountain.  Two  hundred 
yards  below  the  log  barn,  the  narrow  path  finds  a 
bench  on  the  steep  slope  of  the  hillside,  and,  at  that 
level,  follows  around  the  rim  of  the  Hollow.  Dip 
ping  a  little  at  the  head  of  the  ravine  east  of  the 
spring,  then  lifting  itself  over  a  low,  heavily  timbered 
spur  of  one  of  the  higher  hills,  it  comes  out  again  into 
the  open.  Following  a  rocky  ledge,  the  way,  farther 
on,  leads  through  a  clump  of  sumac  bushes,  and  past 
the  deer  lick  in  the  big  low  gaps,  then  around  the 
bass  of  Boulder  Bald,  along  another  ledge,  and  out 

12 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

on  the  bare  shoulder  of  Dewey  Bald,  which  partly 
shuts  in  the  little  valley  on  the  south. 

From  the  big  rock  that  Sammy  Lane  calls  her 
Lookout,  the  Old  Trail  leaves  the  rim  of  Mutton  Hol 
low  and  slips  easily  down  into  the  lower  valleys; 
down  past  the  little  cabin  on  the  southern  slope 
of  the  mountain  where  Sammy  lived  with  her  father ; 
down  to  the  banks  of  Fall  Creek  and  to  the  distant 
river  bottom.  Here  the  thread-like  path  finds  a  wider 
way,  leading,  somehow,  out  of  the  wilderness  to  the 
great  world  that  lies  miles,  and  miles,  beyond  the 
farthest  blue  line  of  hills ;  the  world  that  Sammy  said 
"seemed  mighty  fine  to  them  that  knowed  nothin' 
about  it." 

~No  one  seems  to  know  how  long  that  narrow  path 
has  lain  along  the  mountain ;  but  it  must  be  very  long 
for  it  is  deeply  worn  at  places. 

Often,  in  the  years  of  our  story,  swift  leaping  deer 
would  cross  the  ridge  at  the  low  gap  and  follow  along 
the  benches  to  the  spring.  And  sometimes  a  lithe 
bodied  panther,  in  the  belt  of  timber,  watched  hun 
grily  for  their  coming,  or  a  huge-pawed  catamount, 
on  some  over-hanging  rock,  would  lie  in  wait  for  fawn 
or  doe.  Or  perhaps  a  gaunt  timber  wolf  would  sniff 
the  trail,  and  with  wild  echoing  howls  call  his  com 
rades  to  the  chase. 

Jim  Lane,  young  then,  followed  that  winding  way 
from  the  distant  river,  and  from  nobody  knows  where 

13 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

beyond,  when  he  came  to  build  his  lonely  hunter's 
shack  by  the  spring  on  the  southern  slope  of  Dewey. 
And  later,  when  the  shack  in  the  timber  was  replaced 
by  a  more  substantial  settler's  cabin,  Jim  led  Sam 
my's  mother  along  the  same  old  way.  Then  came  the 
giant  Grant  Matthews  with  Aunt  Mollie  and  their  lit 
tle  family.  They  followed  the  path  three  miles  far 
ther  and  built  their  home  where  the  trail  climbs  over 
the  ridge. 

When  Grant  Matthews,  Jr.,  was  eighteen,  his 
father  mortgaged  the  hard-won  homestead  to  pur 
chase  the  sheep  ranch  in  Mutton  Hollow.  Then  it 
was  that  another  path  was  made,  branching  off  in 
the  belt  of  timber  from  the  Old  Trail  and  following 
the  spur  down  into  the  little  valley  where  the  corral 
was  snugly  sheltered  from  the  winter  winds. 

So  the  Lane  cabin,  the  Matthews  homestead,  and 
the  sheep  ranch  in  Mutton  Hollow  were  all  connected 
by  well-marked  paths;  but  it  is  the  trail  that  leads 
from  Sammy  Lane's  home  to  the  big  log  house  where 
young  Matthews  lives,  that  is,  nobody  knows,  how  old. 


14 


The 
Shepherd  of  the  Hills 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  STRANGER: 

|T  was  corn-planting  time,  when  the 
stranger  followed  the  Old  Trail  into  the 
Mutton  Hollow  neighborhood. 

All  day  a  fine  rain  had  fallen  steadily, 
and  the  mists  hung  heavy  over  the  valley.  The  lower 
hills  were  wrapped  as  in  a  winding  sheet ;  dank  and 
cold.  The  trees  were  dripping  with  moisture.  The 
stranger  looked  tired  and  wet. 

By  his  dress,  the  man  was  from  the  world  heyond 
the  ridges,  and  his  carefully  tailored  clothing  looked 
strangely  out  of  place  in  the  mountain  wilderness. 
His  form  stooped  a  little  in  the  shoulders,  perhaps 
with  weariness,  but  he  carried  himself  with  the  un 
conscious  air  of  one  long  used  to  a  position  of  con 
spicuous  power  and  influence;  and,  while  his  well- 
kept  hair  and  beard  were  strongly  touched  with 
white,  the  brown,  clear  lighted  eyes,  that  looked  from 
under  their  shaggy  brows,  told  of  an  intellect  un- 

15 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

clouded  by  the  shadows  of  many  years.  It  was  a  face 
marked  deeply  by  pride ;  pride  of  birth,  of  intellect, 
of  culture ;  the  face  of  a  scholar  and  poet ;  but  it  was 
more — it  was  the  countenance  of  one  fairly  staggering 
under  a  burden  of  disappointment  and  grief. 

As  the  stranger  walked,  he  looked  searchingly  into 
the  mists  on  every  hand,  and  paused  frequently  as  if 
questioning  the  proper  course.  Suddenly  he  stepped 
quickly  forward.  His  ear  had  caught  the  sharp  ring 
of  a  horse's  shoe  on  a  flint  rock  somewhere  in  the 
mists  on  the  mountain  side  above.  It  was  Jed  Hol 
land  coming  down  the  trail  with  a  week's  supply  of 
corn  meal  in  a  sack  across  his  horse's  back. 

As  the  figure  of  the  traveler  emerged  from  the 
mists,  the  native  checked  his  horse  to  greet  the  new 
comer  with  the  customary  salutation  of  the  back 
woods,  "Howdy." 

The  man  returned  Jed's  greeting  cordially,  and, 
resting  his  satchel  on  a  rock  beside  the  narrow  path, 
added,  "I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you.  I  fear  that  I 
am  lost." 

The  voice  was  marvelously  pure,  deep,  and 
musical,  and,  like  the  brown  eyes,  betrayed  the  real 
strength  of  the  man,  denied  by  his  gray  hair  and  bent 
form.  The  tones  were  as  different  from  the  high 
keyed,  slurring  speech  of  the  backwoods,  as  the 
gentleman  himself  was  unlike  any  man  Jed  had  ever 
met.  The  boy  looked  at  the  speaker  in  wide-eyed 

16 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

wonder;  he  had  a  queer  feeling  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  superior  being. 

Throwing  one  thin  leg  over  the  old  mare's  neck 
and  waving  a  long  arm  up  the  hill  and  to  the  left, 
Jed  drawled,  "That  thar's  Dewey  Bal';  down  yon- 
der's  Mutton  Holler."  Then  turning  a  little  to  the 
right  and  pointing  into  the  mist  with  the  other  hand, 
he  continued,  "Compton  Ridge  is  over  thar.  Whar 
was  you  tryin'  to  git  to,  Mister  ?" 

"Where  am  I  trying  to  get  to  ?"  As  the  man  re 
peated  Jed's  question,  he  drew  his  hand  wearily 
across  his  brow ;  "I — I — it  doesn't  much  matter,  boy. 
I  suppose  I  must  find  some  place  where  I  can  stay 
tonight.  Do  you  live  near  here  ?" 

"INTope,"  Jed  answered,  "Hit's  a  right  smart  piece 
to  whar  I  live.  This  here's  grindin'  day,  an'  I've 
been  t'  mill  over  on  Fall  Creek;  the  Matthews  mill 
hit  is.  Hit'll  be  plumb  dark  'gin  I  git  home.  I 
'lowed  you  was  a  stranger  in  these  parts  soon's  I 
ketched  sight  of  you.  What  might  yer  name  be, 
Mister?" 

The  other,  looking  back  over  the  way  he  had  come, 
seemed  not  to  hear  Jed's  question,  and  the  native 
continued,  "Mine's  Holland.  Pap  an'  Mam  they 
come  from  Tennessee.  Pap  he's  down  in  th'  back 
now,  an'  ain't  right  peart,  but  he'll  be  'round  in  a 
little,  I  reckon.  Preachin'  Bill  he  'lows  hit's  good 
for  a  feller  t'  be  down  in  th'  back  onct  in  a  while; 

IT 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

says  if  hit  warn't  fer  that  we'd  git  to  standin'  so 
durned  proud  an'  straight  we'd  go  plumb  over  back 
wards." 

A  bitter  smile  crossed  the  face  of  the  older  man. 
He  evidently  applied  the  native's  philosophy  in  a  way 
unguessed  by  Jed.  "Very  true,  very  true,  indeed," 
he  mused.  Then  he  turned  to  Jed,  and  asked,  "la 
there  a  house  near  here !" 

"Jim  Lane  lives  up  the  trail  'bout  half  a  quarter. 
Erer  hear  tell  o'  Jim?" 

"No,  I  have  never  been  in  these  mountains  before." 

"I  'lowed  maybe  you'd  heard  tell  o'  Jim  or  Sammy. 
There's  them  that  'lows  Jim  knows  a  heap  more 
'bout  old  man  Dewey's  cave  than  he  lets  on ;  his  place 
bein'  so  nigh.  Reckon  you  know  'bout  Colonel 
Dewey,  him  th'  Bal'  up  thar's  named  fer?  Maybe 
you  come  t'  look  for  the  big  mine  they  say's  in  th' 
cave?  I'll  hep  you  hunt  hit,  if  you  want  me  to, 
Mister." 

"No,"  said  the  other,  "I  am  not  looking  for  mines 
of  lead  or  zinc ;  there  is  greater  wealth  in  these  hills 
and  forests,  young  man." 

"Law,  you  don't  say!  Jim  Wilson  allus  'lowed 
thar  must  be  gold  in  these  here  mountains,  'cause 
they're  so  dad  burned  rough.  Lemme  hep  you 
Mister.  I'd  like  mighty  well  t?  git  some  clothes  like 
them." 


18 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  do  not  speak  of  gold,  my  boy,"  the  stranger 
answered  kindly.  "But  I  must  not  keep  you  longer, 
or  darkness  will  overtake  us.  Do  you  think  this  Mr. 
Lane  would  entertain  me  ?" 

Jed  pushed  a  hand  up  under  his  tattered  old  hat, 
and  scratched  awhile  before  he  answered,  "Don't 
know  'bout  th'  entertaining  Mister,  but  'most  any 
body  would  take  you  in."  He  turned  and  looked 
thoughtfully  up  the  trail.  "I  don't  guess  Jim's  to 
home  though;  'cause  I  see'd  Sammy  a  fixin'  t'  go 
over  t'  th'  Matthews's  when  I  come  past.  You  know 
the  Matthews's,  I  reckon?" 

There  was  a  hint  of  impatience  now  in  the  deep 
voice.  "No,  I  told  you  that  I  had  never  been  in 
these  mountains  before.  Will  Mr.  Matthews  keep  me, 
do  you  think  ?" 

Jed,  who  was  still  looking  up  the  trail,  suddenly 
leaned  forward,  and,  pointing  into  the  timber  to  the 
left  of  the  path,  said  in  an  exciting  whisper,  "Look 
at  that,  Mister ;  yonder  thar  by  that  big  rock." 

The  stranger,  looking,  thought  he  saw  a  form, 
weird  and  ghost-like  in  the  mist,  flitting  from  tree  to 
tree,  bu,t,  even  as  he  looked,  it  vanished  among  the 
hundreds  of  fantastic  shapes  in  the  gray  forest. 
"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

The  native  shook  his  head.  "Durned  if  I  know, 
Mister.  You  can't  tell.  There's  mighty  strange 


19 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

things  stirrin'  on  this  here  mountain,  an'  in  the 
Holler  down  yonder.  Say,  Mister,  did  you  ever  see 
a  hant?" 

The  gentleman  did  not  understand. 

"A  hant,  a  ghost,  some  calls  'em,"  explained  Jed. 
"Bud  Wilson  he  sure  seed  old  Matt's — " 

The  other  interrupted.  "Really,  young  man,  I 
must  go.  It  is  already  late,  and  you  know  I  have  yet 
to  find  a  place  to  stay  for  the  night." 

"Law,  that's  alright,  Mister !"  replied  Jed.  "Ain't 
no  call  t'  worry.  Stay  anywhere.  Whar  do  you  live 
when  you're  to  home?" 

Again  Jed's  question  was  ignored.  "You  think 
then  that  Mr.  Matthews  will  keep  me  ?" 

"Law,  yes!  They'll  take  anybody  in.  I  know 
they're  to  home  'cause  they  was  a  fixin'  t'  leave  the 
mill  when  I  left  'bout  an  hour  ago.  Was  the  river  up 
much  when  you  come  acrost  ?"  As  the  native  spoke 
he  was  still  peering  uneasily  into  the  woods. 

"I  did  not  cross  the  river.  How  far  is  it  to  this 
Matthews  place,  and  how  do  I  go  ?" 

"Jest  foller  this  Old  Trail.  Hit'll  take  you  right 
thar.  Good  road  all  th'  way.  'Bout  three  mile,  I'd 
say.  Did  you  come  from  Springfield  or  St.  Louis, 
maybe?" 

The  man  lifted  his  satchel  from  the  rock  as  he 
answered:  "$"0,  I  do  not  live  in  either  Springfield 


20 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

or  St.  Louis.  Thank  you,  very  much,  for  your  assist 
ance.  I  will  go  on,  now,  for  I  must  hurry,  or  night 
will  overtake  me,  and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  find  the 
path.'7 

"Oh,  hit's  a  heap  lighter  when  you  git  up  on  th' 
hill  'bove  th'  fog,"  said  Jed,  lowering  his  leg  from  the 
horse's  neck,  and  settling  the  meal  sack,  preparatory 
to  moving.  "But  I'd  a  heap  rather  hit  was  you  than 
me  a  goin'  up  on  Dewey  t'night."  He  was  still 
looking  up  the  trail.  "Reckon  you  must  be  from 
Kansas  City  or  Chicago  ?  I  heard  tell  they're  mighty 
big  towns." 

The  stranger's  only  answer  was  a  curt  "Good-by," 
as  his  form  vanished  in  the  mist. 

Jed  turned  and  dug  his  heels  vigorously  in  the  old 
mare's  flanks,  as  he  ejaculated  softly,  "Well,  I'll  be 
dod  durned!  Must  be  from  JTew  York,  sure!" 

Slowly  the  old  man  toiled  up  the  mountain;  up 
from  the  mists  of  the  lower  ground  to  the  ridge 
above ;  and,  as  he  climbed,  unseen  by  him,  a  shadowy 
form  flitted  from  tree  to  tree  in  the  dim,  dripping 
forest. 

As  the  stranger  came  in  sight  of  the  Lane  cabin, 
a  young  woman  on  a  brown  pony  rode  out  of  the 
gate  and  up  the  trail  before  him ;  and  when  the  man 
reached  the  open  ground  on  the  mountain  above,  and 
rounded  the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  he  saw  the  pony, 


21 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

far  ahead,  loping  easily  along  the  little  path.  A  mo 
ment  he  watched,  and  horse  and  rider  passed  from 
sight. 

The  clouds  were  drifting  far  away.  The  western 
sky  was  clear  with  the  sun  still  above  the  hills.  In 
an  old  tree  that  leaned  far  out  over  the  valley,  a 
crow  shook  the  wet  from  his  plumage  and  dried  him 
self  in  the  warm  light;  while  far  below  the  mists 
rolled,  and  on  the  surface  of  that  gray  sea,  the  trav 
eler  saw  a  company  of  buzzards,  wheeling  and  cir 
cling  above  some  dead  thing  hidden  in  its  depth. 

Wearily  the  man  followed  the  Old  Trail  toward 
the  Matthews  place,  and  always,  as  he  went,  in  the 
edge  of  the  gloomy  forest,  flitted  that  shadowy  form. 


CHAPTER  H. 

SAMMY  LANE. 

:REACHI:NT'  BILL  says,  "Hit's  a  plumb 

shame  there  ain't  more  men  in  th7  world 
built  like  old  man  Matthews  and  that 
thar  boy  o'  his'n.  Men  like  them  ought 
t'  be  as  common  as  th'  other  kind,  an'  would  be  too 
if  folks  cared  half  as  much  'bout  breeding  folks  as 
they  do  'bout  raising  hogs  an7  horses." 

Mr.  Matthews  was  a  giant.  Fully  six  feet  four 
inches  in  height,  with  big  bones,  broad  shoulders, 
and  mighty  muscles.  At  log  rollings  and  chopping 
bees,  in  the  field  or  at  the  mill,  or  in  any  of  the 
games  in  which  the  backwoodsman  tries  his  strength, 
no  one  had  ever  successfully  contested  his  place  as 
the  strongest  man  in  the  hills.  And  still,  throughout 
the  country  side,  the  old  folks  tell  with  pride  tales 
of  the  marvelous  feats  of  strength  performed  in  the 
days  when  "Old  Matt"  was  young. 

Of  the  son,  "Young  Matt,"  the  people  called  him, 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  seemed  made  of  the  same 
metal  and  cast  in  the  same  mold  as  the  father:  a 
mighty  frame,  softened  yet  by  young  manhood's 
grace;  a  powerful  neck  and  well  poised  head  with 

23 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

wavy-red-brown  hair ;  and  blue  eyes  that  had  in  them 
the  calm  of  summer  skies  or  the  glint  of  battle  steel. 
It  was  a  countenance  fearless  and  frank,  but  gentle 
and  kind,  and  the  eyes  were  honest  eyes. 

Anyone  meeting  the  pair,  as  they  walked  with  the 
long  swinging  stride  of  the  mountaineer  up  the  steep 
mill  road  that  gray  afternoon,  would  have  turned  for 
a  second  look;  such  men  are  seldom  seen. 

When  they  reached  the  big  log  house  that  looks 
down  upon  the  Hollow,  the  boy  went  at  once  with  his 
axe  to  the  woodpile,  while  the  older  man  busied  him 
self  with  the  milking  and  other  chores  about  the  barn. 

Young  Matt  had  not  been  chopping  long  when  he 
heard,  coming  up  the  hill,  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet 
on  the  Old  Trail.  The  horse  stopped  at  the  house 
and  a  voice,  that  stirred  the  blood  in  the  young  man's 
veins,  called,  "Howdy,  Aunt  Mollie." 

Mrs.  Matthews  appeared  in  the  doorway;  by  her 
frank  countenance  and  kindly  look  anyone  would 
have  known  her  at  a  glance  as  the  boy's  mother. 
"Land  sakes,  if  it  ain't  Sammy  Lane !  How  are  you, 
honey  ?" 

"I  am  alright,"  answered  the  voice;  "I've  come 
over  t'  stop  with  you  tonight;  Dad's  away  again; 
Mandy  Ford  staid  with  me  last  night,  but  she  had  to 
go  home  this  evenin'."  The  big  fellow  at  the  wood 
pile  drove  his  axe  deeper  into  the  log. 

"It's  about  time  you  was  comin'  over,"  replied 

24 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  woman  in  the  doorway ;  "I  was  a  tellin'  the  men- 
folks  this  mornin'  that  you  hadn't  been  nigh  the 
whole  blessed  *week.  Mr.  Matthews  'lowed  maybe 
you  was  sick." 

The  other  returned  with  a  gay  laugh,  "I  was  never 
sick  a  minute  in  my  life  that  anybody  ever  heard 
tell.  I'm  powerful  hungry,  though.  You'd  better 
put  in  another  pan  of  corn  bread."  She  turned  her 
pony's  head  toward  the  barn. 

"Seems  like  you  are  always  hungry,"  laughed  the 
older  woman,  in  return.  "Well  just  go  on  out  to  the 
barn,  and  the  men  will  take  your  horse;  then  come 
right  in  and  I'll  mighty  soon  have  something  to  fill 
you  up." 

Operations  at  the  woodpile  suddenly  ceased  and 
Young  Matt  was  first  at  the  barn-yard  gate. 

Miss  Sammy  Lane  was  one  of  those  rare  young 
women  whose  appearance  is  not  to  be  described.  One 
can,  of  course,  put  it  down  that  she  was  tall ;  beauti 
fully  tall,  with  the  trirnness  of  a  young  pine,  deep 
bosomed,  with  limbs  full-rounded,  fairly  tingling 
with  the  life  and  strength  of  perfect  womanhood; 
and  it  may  be  said  that  her  face  was  a  face  to  go 
with  one  through  the  years,  and  to  live  still  in  one's 
dreams  when  the  sap  of  life  is  gone,  and,  withered 
and  old,  one  sits  shaking  before  the  fire ;  a  generous, 
loving  mouth,  red  lipped,  full  arched,  with  the  cor 
ners  tucked  in  and  perfect  teeth  between ;  a  womanly 

25 


THE  SHEPHEBD  OF  THE  HTLLS 

chin  and  nose,  with  character  enough  to  save  them 
from  being  pretty;  hair  dark,  showing  a  touch  of 
gold  with  umber  in  the  shadows ;  a  brow,  full  broad, 
set  over  brown  eyes  that  had  never  been  taught  to 
hide  behind  their  fringed  veils,  but  looked  always 
square  out  at  you  with  a  healthy  look  of  good  com 
radeship,  a  gleam  of  mirth,  or  a  sudden,  wide,  ques 
tioning  gaze  that  revealed  depth  of  soul  within. 

But  what  is  the  use?  When  all  this  is  written, 
those  who  knew  Sammy  will  say,  "  'Tis  but  a  poor 
picture,  for  she  is  something  more  than  all  this." 
Uncle  Ike,  the  postmaster  at  the  Forks,  did  it  much 
better  when  he  said  to  "Preachin'  Bill,"  the  night  of 
the  "Doin's"  at  the  Cove  School,  "Ba  thundas !  That 
gal  o'  Jim  Lane's  jest  plumb  fills  th'  whole  house. 
What!  An'  when  she  comes  a  ridin'  up  t'  the'  office 
on  that  brown  pony  o'  hern,  I'll  be  dad  burned  if 
she  don't  pretty  nigh  fill  th'  whole  out  doors,  ba 
thundas  I  What !"  And  the  little  shrivelled  up  old 
hillsman,  who  keeps  the  ferry,  removed  his  cob  pipe 
long  enough  to  reply,  with  all  the  emphasis  possible 
to  his  squeaky  voice,  "She  sure  do,  Ike.  She  sure 
do.  I've  often  thought  hit  didn't  look  jest  fair  for 
God  'Imighty  t'  make  sech  a  woman  'thout  ary  man 
t'  match  her.  Makes  me  feel  plumb  'shamed  o'  my 
self  t'  stand  'round  in  th'  same  county  with  her.  Hit 
sure  do,  Ike." 


26 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Greeting  the  girl  the  young  man  opened  the  gate 
for  her  to  pass. 

"I've  been  a  lookin'  for  you  over,"  said  Sammy,  a 
teasing  light  in  her  eyes.  "Didn't  you  know  that 
Mandy  was  stoppin'  with  me !  She's  been  a  dyin'  to 


see  YOU." 


"I'm  mighty  sorry,"  he  replied,  fastening  the  gate 
and  coming  to  the  pony's  side.  "Why  didn't  you  tell 
me  before?  I  reckon  she'll  get  over  it  alright, 
though,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  as  he  raised  his 
arms  to  assist  the  girl  to  dismount. 

The  teasing  light  vanished  as  the  young  woman 
placed  her  hands  on  the  powerful  shoulders  of  the 
giant,  and  as  she  felt  the  play  of  the  swelling  muscles 
that  swung  her  to  the  ground  so  easily,  her  face 
flushed  with  admiration.  For  the  fraction  of  a  min 
ute  she  stood  facing  him,  her  hands  still  on  his  arms, 
her  lips  parted  as  if  to  speak ;  then  she  turned  quickly 
away,  and  without  a  word  walked  toward  the  house, 
while  the  boy,  pretending  to  busy  himself  with  the 
pony's  bridle,  watched  her  as  she  went. 

When  the  girl  was  gone,  the  big  fellow  led  the  horse 
away  to  the  stable,  where  he  crossed  his  arms  upon 
the  saddle  and  hid  his  face  from  the  light.  Mr. 
Matthews  coming  quietly  to  the  door  a  few  minutes 
later  saw  the  boy  standing  there,  and  the  rugged  face 
of  the  big  mountaineer  softened  at  the  sight.  Quietly 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

he  withdrew  to  the  other  side  of  the  barn,  to  return 
later  when  the  saddle  and  bridle  had  been  removed, 
and  the  young  man  stood  stroking  the  pony,  as  the 
little  horse  munched  his  generous  feed  of  corn. 

The  elder  man  laid  his  hand  on  the  broad  shoulder 
of  the  lad  so  like  him,  and  looked  full  into  the  clear 
eyes.  "Is  it  alright,  son  ?"  he  asked  gruffly ;  and  the 
boy  answered,  as  he  returned  his  father's  look,  "It's 
alright,  Dad." 

"Then  let's  go  to  the  house;  Mother  called  supper 
some  time  ago." 

Just  as^the  little  company  were  seating  themselves 
at  the  table,  the  dog  in  the  yard  barked  loudly. 
Young  Matt  went  to  the  door.  The  stranger,  whom 
Jed  had  met  on  the  Old  Trail,  stood  at  the  gate. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  VOICE  FROM  OUT  THE  MISTS. 

f^HILE  Young  Matt  was  gone  to  the  corral 
in  the  valley  to  see  that  the  sheep  were 
safely  folded  for  the  night,  and  the 
two  women  were  busy  in  the  house 
with  their  after-supper  work,  Mr.  Matthews  and  his 
guest  sat  on  the  front  porch. 

"My  name  is  Howitt,  Daniel  Howitt,"  the  man 
said  in  answer  to  the  host's  question.  But,  as  he 
spoke,  there  was  in  his  manner  a  touch  of  embar 
rassment,  and  he  continued  quickly  as  if  to  prevent 
further  question,  "You  have  two  remarkable  chil 
dren,  sir ;  that  boy  is  the  finest  specimen  of  manhood 
I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  girl  is  remarkable — re 
markable,  sir.  You  will  pardon  me,  I  am  sure,  but  I 
am  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  my  kind,  and  I  certainly 
have  never  seen  such  a  pair." 

The  grim  face  of  the  elder  Matthews  showed  both 
pleasure  and  amusement.  "You're  mistaken,  Mister ; 
the  boy's  mine  alright,  an'  he's  all  that  you  say,  an' 
more,  I  reckon.  I  doubt  if  there's  a  man  in  the 
hills  can  match  him  today;  not  excepting  Wash 
Gibbs;  an'  he's  a  mighty  good  boy,  too.  But  the 
girl  is  a  daughter  of  a  neighbor,  and  no  kin  at  all." 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Indeed !"  exclaimed  the  other,  "you  have  only  one 
child  then?" 

The  amused  smile  left  the  face  of  the  old  moun 
taineer,  as  he  answered  slowly,  "There  was  six  boys, 
sir;  this  one,  Grant,  is  the  youngest.  The  others  lie 
over  there."  He  pointed  with  his  pipe  to  where  a 
clump  of  pines,  not  far  from  the  house,  showed  dark 
and  tall,  against  the  last  red  glow  in  the  sky. 

The  stranger  glanced  at  the  big  man's  face  in 
quick  sympathy.  "I  had  only  two ;  a  boy  and  a  girl," 
he  said  softly.  "The  girl  and  her  mother  have  been 
gone  these  twenty  years.  The  boy  grew  to  be  a  man, 
and  now  he  has  left  me."  The  deep  voice  faltered. 
"Pardon  me,  sir,  for  speaking  of  this,  but  my  lad 
was  so  like  your  boy  there.  He  was  all  I  had,  and 
now — now — I  am  very  lonely,  sir." 

There  is  a  bond  of  fellowship  in  sorrow  that  knows 
no  conventionalities.  As  the  two  men  sat  in  the  hush 
of  the  coming  night,  their  faces  turned  toward  the 
somber  group  of  trees,  they  felt  strongly  drawn  to  one 
another. 

The  mountaineer's  companion  spoke  again  half 
to  himself;  "I  wish  that  my  dear  ones  had  a 
resting  place  like  that.  In  the  crowded  city  cem 
etery  the  ground  is  always  shaken  by  the  trampling 
of  funeral  processions."  He  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

Eor  some  time  the  stranger  sat  thus,  while  his 

30 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

host  spoke  no  word.  Then  lifting  his  head,  the  man 
looked  away  over  the  ridges  just  touched  with  the 
lingering  light,  and  the  valley  below  wrapped  in  the 
shadowy  mists.  "I  came  away  from  it  all  because 
they  said  I  must,  and  because  I  was  hungry  for  this." 
He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  glowing  sky  and  the 
forest  clad  hills.  "This  is  good  for  me;  it  somehow 
seems  to  help  me  know  how  big  God  is.  One  could 
find  peace  here — surely,  sir,  one  could  find  it  here — 
peace  and  strength." 

The  mountaineer  puffed  hard  at  his  pipe  for  a 
while,  then  said  gruffly,  " Seems  that  way,  Mister, 
to  them  that  don't  know.  But  many's  the  time  I've 
wished  to  God  I'd  never  seen  these  here  Ozarks.  I 
used  to  feel  like  you  do,  but  I  can't  no  more.  They 
'mind  me  now  of  him  that  blackened  my  life;  he 
used  to  take  on  powerful  about  the  beauty  of  the 
country  and  all  the  time  he  was  a  turnin'  it  into  a 
hell  for  them  that  had  to  stay  here  after  he  was 
gone." 

As  he  spoke,  anger  and  hatred  grew  dark  in  the 
giant's  face,  and  the  stranger  saw  the  big  hands 
clench  and  the  huge  frame  grow  tense  with  passion. 
Then,  as  if  striving  to  be  not  ungracious,  the  woods 
man  said  in  a  somewhat  softer  tone,  "You  can't  see- 
much  of  it,  this  evening,  though,  'count  of  the  mists. 
It'll  fair  up  by  morning,  I  reckon.  You  can  see  a 
long  way  from  here,  of  a  clear  day,  Mister." 

31 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Yes,  indeed/'  replied  Mr.  Howitt,  in  an  odd  tone. 
"One  could  see  far  from  here,  I  am  sure.  We,  who 
live  in  the  cities,  see  but  a  little  farther  than  across 
the  street.  We  spend  our  days  looking  at  the  work  of 
our  own  and  our  neighbors'  hands.  Small  wonder 
our  lives  have  so  little  of  God  in  them,  when  we  come 
in  touch  with  so  little  that  God  has  made." 

"You  live  in  the  city,  then,  when  you  are  at 
home  ?"  asked  Mr.  Matthews,  looking  curiously  at  his 
guest. 

"I  did,  when  I  had  a  home;  I  cannot  say  that  I 
live  anywhere  now." 

Old  Matt  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  as  if  to  speak 
again ;  then  paused ;  someone  was  coming  up  the  hill ; 
and  soon  they  distinguished  the  stalwart  form  of  the 
son.  Sammy  coming  from  the  house  with  an  empty 
bucket  met  the  young  man  at  the  gate,  and  the  two 
went  toward  the  spring  together. 

In  silence  the  men  on  the  porch  watched  the  moon 
as  she  slowly  pushed  her  way  up  through  the  leafy 
screen  on  the  mountain  wall.  Higher  and  higher  she 
climbed  until  her  rays  fell  into  the  valley  below,  and 
the  drifting  mists  from  ridge  to  ridge  became  a  sea  of 
ghostly  light.  It  was  a  weird  scene,  almost  super 
natural  in  its  beauty. 

Then  from  down  at  the  spring  a  young  girl's  laugh 
rose  clearly,  and  the  big  mountaineer  said  in  a  low 
tone,  "Mr.  Howitt,  you've  got  education ;  it's  easy  to 

32 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

see  that;  I've  always  wanted  to  ask  somebody  like 
you,  do  you  believe  in  h?.nts  ?  Do  you  reckon  folks 
ever  come  back  once  they're  dead  and  gone  ?" 

The  man  from  the  city  saw  that  his  big  host  was 
terribly  in  earnest,  and  answered  quietly,  "No,  I  do 
not  believe  in  such  things,  Mr.  Matthews;  but  if  it 
should  be  true,  I  do  not  see  why  we  should  fear  the 
dead." 

The  other  shook  his  head ;  "I  don't  know — I  don't 
know,  sir;  I  always  said  I  didn't  believe,  but  some 
things  is  mighty  queer."  He  seemed  to  be  shaping 
his  thought  for  further  speech,  when  again  the  gir]'s 
laugh  rang  clear  along  the  mountain  side.  The 
young  people  were  returning  from  the  spring. 

The  mountaineer  relighted  his  pipe,  while  Young 
Matt  and  Sammy  seated  themselves  on  the  step,  and 
Mrs.  Matthews  coming  from  the  house  joined  the 
group. 

"We've  just  naturally  got  to  find  somebody  to  stay 
with  them  sheep,  Dad,"  said  the  son;  "there  ain't 
nobody  there  tonight,  and  as  near  as  I  can  make  out 
there's  three  ewes  and  their  lambs  missing.  There 
ain't  a  bit  of  use  in  us  trying  to  depend  on  Pete." 

"I'll  ride  over  on  Bear  Creek  tomorrow,  and  see  if 
I  can  get  that  fellow  Buck  told  us  about,"  returned 
the  father. 

"You  find  it  hard  to  get  help  on  the  ranch?"  in 
quired  the  stranger. 

33 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Yes,  sir,  we  do,"  answered  Old  Matt.  "We  had 
a  good  7nougli  man  'till  about  a  month  ago;  since 
then  we've  been  gettin'  along  the  best  we  could.  But 
with  some  a  stayin'  out  on  the  range,  an7  not  comin* 
in,  an'  the  wolves  a  gettin'  into  the  corral  at  night, 
we'll  lose  mighty  nigh  all  the  profits  this  year.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  there  ain't  much  show  to  get  a  man; 
unless  that  one  over  on  Bear  Creek  will  come.  I 
reckon,  though,  he'll  be  like  the  rest."  He  sat  star 
ing  gloomily  into  the  night. 

"Is  the  work  so  difficult  ?"  Mr.  Howitt  asked. 

"Difficult,  no ;  there  ain't  nothing  to  do  but  tendin' 
to  the  sheep.  The  man  has  to  stay  at  the  ranch  of 
nights,  though." 

Mr.  Howitt  was  wondering  what  staying  at  the 
ranch  nights  could  have  to  do  with  the  difficulty, 
when,  up  from  the  valley  below,  from  out  the  dark 
ness  and  the  mists,  came  a  strange  sound ;  a  sound  as 
if  someone  were  singing  a  song  without  words.  ^So 
wild  and  weird  was  the  melody ;  so  passionately  sweet 
the  voice,  it  seemed  impossible  that  the  music  should 
come  from  human  lips.  It  was  more  as  though  some 
genie  of  the  forest-clad  hills  wandered  through  the 
mists,  singing  as  he  went  with  the  joy  of  his  posse*- 
sions. 

Mrs.  Matthews  came  close  to  her  husband's  side? 
and  placed  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  as  he  half 
rose  from  his  chair,  his  pipe  fallen  to  the  floor, 

34 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

Young  Matt  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved  closer  to  the 
girl,  who  was  also  standing.  The  stranger  alone  kept 
his  seat  and  he  noted  the  agitation  of  the  others  in 
wonder. 

For  some  moments  the  sound  continued,  now  soft 
and  low,  with  the  sweet  sadness  of  the  wind  in  the 
pines;  then  clear  and  ringing,  it  echoed  and  re 
echoed  along  the  mountain;  now  pleadingly,  as 
though  a  soul  in  darkness  prayed  a  gleam  of  light; 
again  rising,  swelling  exultingly,  as  in  glad  triumph, 
only  to  die  away  once  more  to  that  moaning  wail, 
seeming  at  last  to  hopelessly  lose  itself  in  the  mists. 

Slowly  Old  Matt  sank  back  into  his  seat  and  the 
stranger  heard  him  mutter,  "Poor  boy,  poor  boy." 
Aunt  Mollie  was  weeping.  Suddenly  Sammy  sprang 
from  the  steps  and  running  down  the  walk  to  the  gate 
sent  a  clear,  piercing  call  over  the  valley :  "O — h — h, 
Pete."  The  group  on  the  porch  listened  intently. 
Again  the  girl  called,  and  yet  again:  "0 — h — h, 
Pete."  But  there  was  no  answer. 

"It's  no  use,  honey,"  said  Mrs.  Matthews,  breaking 
the  silence ;  "it  just  ain't  no  use ;"  and  the  young  girl 
came  slowly  back  to  the  porch. 


35 


CHAPTER  IV. 
A  CHAT  WITH  AUNT  MOLLIE. 

'HEN"  the  stranger  looked  from  his  win 
dow  the  next  morning,  the  valley  was 
still  wrapped  in  its  gray  blanket.  But 
when  he  and  his  host  came  from  the 
house  after  breakfast,  the  sun  had  climbed  well  above 
the  ridge,  and,  save  a  long,  loosely  twisted  rope  of 
fog  that  hung  above  the  distant  river,  the  mists  were 
gone.  The  city  man  exclaimed  with  delight  at  the 
beauty  of  the  scene. 

As  they  stood  watching  the  sheep — white  specks  in 
the  distance — climbing  out  of  the  valley  where  the 
long  shadows  still  lay,  to  the  higher,  sunlit  pastures, 
Mr.  Matthews  said,  "We've  all  been  a  talkin'  about 
you  this  mornin',  Mr.  Howitt,  and  we'd  like  mighty 
well  to  have  you  stop  with  us  for  a  spell.  If  I  under 
stood  right,  you're  just  out  for  your  health  anyway, 
and  you'll  go  a  long  ways,  sir,  before  you  find  a 
healthier  place  than  this  right  here.  We  ain't  got 
much  such  as  you're  used  to,  I  know,  but  what  we 
have  is  yourn,  and  we'd  be  proud  to  have  you  make 
yourself  to  home  for  as  long  as  you'd  like  to  stay. 
You  see  it's  been  a  good  while  since  we  met  up  with 

36 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

anybody  like  you,  and  we  count  it  a  real  favor  to  have 
you."  ' 

Mr.  Howitt  accepted  the  invitation  with  evident 
pleasure,  and,  soon  after,  the  mountaineer  rode  away 
to  Bear  Creek,  on  his  quest  for  a  man  to  herd  sheep. 
Young  Matt  had  already  gone  with  his  team  to  the 
field  on  the  hillside  west  of  the  house,  and  the  brown 
pony  stood  at  the  gate  ready  for  Sammy  Lane  to 
return  to  her  home  on  Dewey  Bald. 

"I'd  like  the  best  in  the  world  to  stay,  Aunt  Mol- 
lie,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Matthews'  protest; 
"but  you  know  there  is  no  one  to  feed  the  stock,  and 
besides  Mandy  Ford  will  be  back  sometime  today." 

The  older  woman's  arm  was  around  the  girl  as  they 
went  down  the  walk.  "You  must  come  over  real 
often,  now,  honey;  you  know  it  won't  be  long  'til 
you'll  be  a  leavin'  us  for  good.  How  do  you  reckon 
you'll  like  bein'  a  fine  lady,  and  livin'  in  the  city  with 
them  big  folks  ?" 

The  girl's  face  flushed,  and  her  eyes  had  that  wide 
questioning  look,  as  she  answered  slowly,  "I  don't 
know,  Aunt  Mollie ;  I  ain't  never  seen  a  sure  'nough 
fine  lady.  I  reckon  them  city  folks  are  a  heap  dif 
ferent  from  us,  but  I  reckon  they're  just  as  human. 
It  would  be  nice  to  have  lots  of  money  and  pretties, 
but  somehow  I  feel  like  there's  a  heap  more  than 
that  to  think  about.  Any  how,"  she  added  brightly, 
"I  ain't  goin'  for  quite  a  spell  yet,  and  you  know 

37 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

'Preachin'  Bill'  says,  There  ain't  no  use  to  worry 
'bout  the  choppin'  'til  the  dogs  has  treed  the  coon-' 
I'll  sure  come  over  every  day." 

Mrs.  Matthews  kissed  the  girl,  and  then,  standing 
at  the  gate,  watched  until  pony  and  rider  had  dis 
appeared  in  the  forest. 

Later  Aunt  Mollie,  with  a  woman's  fondness  for 
a  quiet  chat,  brought  the  potatoes  she  was  preparing 
for  dinner,  to  sit  with  Mr.  Howitt  on  the  porch.  "I 
declare  I  don't  know  what  we'll  do  without  Sammy," 
she  said;  "I  just  can't  bear  to  think  of  her  goin* 
away." 

The  guest,  feeling  that  some  sort  of  a  reply  was 
expected,  asked,  "Is  the  family  moving  from  the 
neighborhood  ?" 

"No,  sir,  there  ain't  no  family  to  move.  Just 
Sammy  and  her  Pa,  and  Jim  Lane  won't  never  leave 
this  country  again.  You  see  Ollie  Stewart's  uncle, 
his  father's  brother  it  is,  ain't  got  no  children  of  his 
own,  and  he  wrote  for  Ollie  to  come  and  live  with 
him  in  the  city.  He's  to  go  to  school  and  learn  the 
business,  foundry  and  machine  shops,  or  something 
like  that  it  is ;  and  if  the  boy  does  what's  right,  he's 
to  get  it  all  some  day.  Ollie  and  Sammy  has  been 
promised  ever  since  the  talk  first  began  about  his 
goin' ;  but  they'll  wait  now  until  he  gets  through  his 
schoolin'.  It'll  be  mighty  nice  for  Sammy,  marryin' 
Ollie,  but  we'll  miss  her  awful ;  the  whole  country  will 

38 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

miss  her,  too.  She's  just  the  life  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  everybody  'lows  there  never  was  another  girl 
like  her.  Poor  child,  she  ain't  had  no  mother  since 
she  was  a  little  trick,  and  she  has  always  come  to  me 
for  everything  like,  us  bein'  such  close  neighbors,  and 
all.  But  law!  sir,  I  ain't  a  blamin'  her  a  mite  for 
goin',  with  her  Daddy  a  runnin'  with  that  ornery 
Wash  Gibbs  the  way  he  does." 

Again  the  man  felt  called  upon  to  express  his  in 
terest;  "Is  Mr.  Lane  in  business  with  this  man 
Gibbs  ?" 

"Law,  no!  that  is,  don't  nobody  know  about  any 
business;  I  reckon  it's  all  on  account  of  those  old 
Bald  Knobbers;  they  used  to  hold  their  meetin's  on 
top  of  Dewey  yonder,  and  folks  do  say  a  man  was 
burned  there  once,  because  he  told  some  of  their 
secrets.  Well,  Jim  and  Wash's  daddy,  and  Wash, 
all  belonged,  'though  Wash  himself  wasn't  much 
more  than  a  boy  then;  and  when  the  government 
broke  up  the  gang,  old  man  Gibbs  was  killed,  and 
Jim  went  to  Texas.  It  was  there  that  Sammy's  Ma 
died.  When  Jim  come  back  it  wasn't  long  before  he 
was  mighty  thick  again  with  Wash  and  his  crowd 
down  on  the  river,  and  he's  been  that  way  ever  since. 
There's  them  that  say  it's  the  same  old  gang,  what's 
left  of  them,  and  some  thinks  too  that  Jim  and 
Wash  knows  about  the  old  Dewey  mine." 

Mr.  Howitt,  remembering  his  conversation  with 

39 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jed  Holland,  asked  encouragingly,  "Is  this  mine  a 
very  rich  one?" 

"Don't  nobody  rightly  know  about  that,  sir,"  an 
swered  Aunt  Mollie.  "This  is  how  it  was :  away  back 
when  the  Injuns  was  makin'  trouble  'cause  the  gov 
ernment  was  movin'  them  west  to  the  territory,  this 
old  man  Dewey  lived  up  there  somewhere  on  that 
mountain.  He  was  a  mighty  queer  old  fellow ;  didn't 
mix  up  with  the  settlers  at  all,  except  Uncle  Josh 
Hensley's  boy  who  wasn't  right  smart,  and  didn't 
nobody  know  where  he  come  from  nor  nothing;  but 
all  the  same,  'twas  him  that  warned  the  settlers  of 
the  trouble,  and  helped  them  all  through  it,  scoutin' 
and  such.  And  one  time  when  they  was  about  out  of 
bullets  and  didn't  have  nothin'  to  make  more  out  of, 
Colonel  Dewey  took  a  couple  of  men  and  some  mules 
up  on  that  mountain  yonder  in  the  night,  and  when 
they  got  back  they  was  just  loaded  down  with  lead, 
but  he  wouldn't  tell  nobody  where  he  got  it,  and  as 
long  as  he  was  with  them,  the  men  didn't  dare  tell. 
Well,  sir,  them  two  men  was  killed  soon  after  by  the 
Injuns,  and  when  the  trouble  was  finally  over,  old 
Dewey  disappeared,  and  ain't  never  been  heard  tell 
of  since.  They  say  the  mine  is  somewhere's  in  a  big 
cave,  but  nobody  ain't  never  found  it,  'though  there's 
them  that  says  the  Bald  Knobbers  used  the  cave  to 
hide  their  stuff  in,  and  that's  how  Jim  Lane  and 
Wash  Gibbs  knows  where  it  is ;  it's  all  mighty  queer. 

40 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

0 

You  can  see  for  yourself  that  Lost  Creek  down  yonder 
just  sinks  clean  out  of  sight  all  at  once;  there  must 
be  a  big  hole  in  there  somewhere." 

Aunt  Mollie  pointed  with  her  knife  to  the  little 
stream  that  winds  like  a  thread 'of  light  down  into 
the  Hollow.  "I  tell  you,  sir,  these  hills  is  pretty  to 
look  at,  but  there  ain't  much  here  for  a  girl  like 
Sammy,  and  I  don't  blame  her  a  mite  for  wantin'  to 
leave.  It's  a  mighty  hard  place  to  live,  Mr.  Howitt, 
and  dangerous,  too,  sometimes." 

"The  city  has  its  hardships  and  its  dangers  too, 
Mrs.  Matthews ;  life  there  demands  almost  too  much 
at  times ;  I  often  wonder  if  it  is  worth  the  struggle." 

"I  guess  that's  so,"  replied  Aunt  Mollie,  "but  it 
don't  seem  like  it  could  be  so  hard  as  it  is  here.  I 
tell  Mr.  Matthews  we've  clean  forgot  the  ways  of 
civilized  folks;  altogethei,  though,  I  suppose  we've 
done  as  well  as  most,  and  we  hadn't  ought  to  com 
plain." 

The  old  scholar  looked  at  the  sturdy  figure  in  its 
plain  calico  dress ;  at  the  worn  hands,  busy  with  their 
homely  task;  and  the  patient,  kindly  face,  across 
which  time  had  ploughed  many  a  furrow,  in  which  to 
plant  the  seeds  of  character  and  worth.  He  thought 
of  other  women  who  had  sat  with  him  on  hotel  ver 
andas,  at  fashionable  watering  places ;  women  gowned 
in  silks  and  laces ;  women  whose  soft  hands  knew  no 
heavier  task  than  the  filmy  fancy  work  they  toyed 

41 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

with,  and  whose  greatest  care,  seemingly,  was  that 
time  should  leave  upon  their  faces  no  record  of  the 
passing  years.  "And  this  is  the  stuff,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "that  makes  possible  the  civilization  that 
produces  them."  Aloud,  he  said,  "Do  you  ever  talk 
of  going  back  to  your  old  home  ?" 

"!N"o,  sir,  not  now;"  she  rested  her  wet  hands  idly 
on  the  edge  of  the  pan  of  potatoes,  and  turned  her 
face  toward  the  clump  of  pines.  "We  used  to  think 
we'd  go  back  sometime ;  seemed  like  at  first  I  couldn't 
stand  it;  then  the  children  come,  and  every  time  we 
laid  one  of  them  over  there  I  thought  less  about 
leavin',  until  now  we  never  talk  about  it  no  more. 
Then  there  was  our  girl,  too,  Mr.  Howitt.  No,  sir, 
we  won't  never  leave  these  hills  now." 

"Oh,  you  had  a  daughter,  too  ?  I  understood  from 
Mr.  Matthews  that  your  children  were  all  boys." 

Aunt  Mollie  worked  a  few  moments  longer  in 
silence,  then  arose  and  turned  toward  the  house. 
"Yes,  sir,  there  was  a  girl ;  she's  buried  under  that 
biggest  pine  you  see  off  there  a  little  to  one  side, 
We — we — don't  never  talk  about  her.  Mr.  Mat- 
thews  can't  stand  it.  Seems  like  he  ain't  never  been 
the  same  since — since — it  happened.  'Tain't  natural 
for  him  to  be  so  rough  and  short;  he's  just  as  good 
and  kind  inside  as  any  man  ever  was  or  could  be. 
He's  real  taken  with  you,  Mr.  Howitt,  and  I'm 
glad  you're  goin'  to  stop  a  spell,  for  it  will 

42 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

do  him  good.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Sammy  Lane 
runnin'  in  every  day  or  two,  I  don't  guess  he  could 
have  stood  it  at  all.  I  sure  don't  know  wb*t  we'll 
do  now  that  she's  goin'  away.  Then  there's — there's 
— that  at  the  ranch  in  Mutton  Hollow;  but  I  guess 
I'd  better  not  try  to  tell  you  about  that.  I  wish  Mr. 
Matthews  would,  though ;  maybe  he  will.  You  know 
so  much  more  than  us;  I  know  most  you  could  help 
us  or  tell  us  about  things." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"JEST  NOBODY." 

[FTER  the  midday  meal,  while  walking 
about  the  place,  Mr.  Howitt  found  a  well 
worn  path;  it  led  him  to  the  group  of 
pines  not  far  from  the  house,  where  five 
rough  head  stones  marked  the  five  mounds  placed 
side  by  side.  A  little  apart  from  these  was  another 
mound,  alone. 

Beneath  the  pines  the  needles  made  a  carpet,  firm 
and  smooth,  figured  by  the  wild  woodbine  that  clam 
bered  over  the  graves ;  moss  had  gathered  on  the  head 
stones,  and  the  wind,  in  the  dark  branches  above, 
moaned  ceaselessly.  About  the  little  plot  of  ground 
a  rustic  fence  of  poles  was  built,  and  the  path  led 
to  a  stile  by  which  one  might  enter  the  enclosure. 

The  stranger  seated  himself  upon  the  rude  steps. 
Below  and  far  away  he  saw  the  low  hills,  rolling 
ridge  on  ridge  like  the  waves  of  a  great  sea,  until  in 
the  blue  distance  they  were  so  lost  in  the  sky  that 
he  could  not  say  which  was  mountain  and  which  was 
cloud.  His  poet  heart  was  stirred  at  sight  of  the 
vast  reaches  of  the  forest  all  shifting  light  and  shad 
ows;  the  cool  depths  of  the  near-by  woods  with  the 

44 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

sunlight  filtering  through  the  leafy  arches  in  streaks 
and  patches  of  gold  on  green;  and  the  wide,  wide 
sky  with  fleets  of  cloud  ships  sailing  to  unseen  ports 
below  the  hills. 

The  man  sat  very  still,  and  as  he  looked  the  worr 
face  charged;  once,  as  if  at  some  pleasing  memory, 
he  smiled.  A  gray  squirrel  with  bright  eyes  full  of 
curious  regard  peeped  over  the  limb  of  an  oak;  a 
red  bird  hopping  from  bush  to  bush  whistled  to  his 
mate ;  and  a  bob-white's  quick  call  came  from  a  near 
by  thicket.  v 

The  dreamer  was  aroused  at  last  by  the  musical 
tinkle  of  a  bell.  He  turned  his  face  toward  the  sound, 
but  could  see  nothing.  The  bell  was  coming  nearer ; 
it  came  nearer  still.  Then  he  saw  here  and  there 
through  the  trees  small,  moving  patches  of  white ;  an 
old  ewe  followed  by  two  lambs  came  from  behind 
a  clump  of  bushes,  and  the  moving  patches  of  white 
shaped  themselves  into  other  sheep  feeding  in  the 
timber. 

Mr.  Howitt  sat  quite  still,  and,  while  the  old  ewe 
paused  to  look  at  him,  the  lambs  took  advantage  of 
the  opportunity,  until  their  mother  was  satisfied  with 
her  inspection,  and  by  moving  on,  upset  them.  Soon 
the  whole  flock  surrounded  him,  and,  after  the  first 
lingering  look  of  inquiry,  paid  no  heed  to  his  pres 
ence. 

Then  from  somewhere  among  the  trees  came  the 

45 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

quick,  low  bark  of  a  dog.  The  man  looked  carefully 
in  every  direction ;  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  sheep^ 
yet  he  felt  himself  observed.  Again  came  the  short 
bark;  and  this  time  a  voice — a  girl's  voice,  Mr. 
Howitt  thought — said,  "It's  alright,  Brave;  go  on, 
brother."  And  from  behind  a  big  rock  not  far  away 
a  shepherd  dog  appeared,  followed  by  a  youth  of  some 
fifteen  years. 

He  was  a  lightly  built  boy;  a  bit  tall  for  his  age, 
perhaps,  but  perfectly  erect;  and  his  every  move 
ment  was  one  of  indescribable  grace,  while  he  man 
aged,  somehow,  to  wear  his  rough  backwoods  gar 
ments  with  an  air  of  distinction  as  remarkable  as  it 
was  charming.  The  face  was  finely  molded,  almost 
girlish,  with  the  large  gray  eyes,  and  its  frame  of 
yellow,  golden  hair.  It  was  a  sad  face  when  in  re 
pose,  yet  wonderfully  responsive  to  every  passing 
thought  and  mood.  But  the  eyes,  with  their  strange 
expression,  and  shifting  light,  proclaimed  the  lad's 
mental  condition. 

As  the  boy  came  forward  in  a  shy,  hesitating  way, 
an  expression  of  amazement  and  wonder  crept  into 
the  stranger's  face;  he  left  his  seat  and  started  for 
ward.  "Howard,"  he  said;  "Howard." 

"That  ain't  his  name,  Mister;  his  name's  Pete," 
returned  the  youth,  in  low,  soft  tones. 

In  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  lad,  no  less  than  in 
his  face  and  eyes,  Mr.  Howitt  read  his  story.  Un- 

46 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

consciously  he  echoed  the  words  of  Mr.  Matthews, 
"Poor  Pete." 

The  dog  lifted  his  head  and  looked  into  the  man's 
face,  while  his  tail  wagged  a  joyful  greeting,  and,  as 
the  man  stooped  to  pat  the  animal  and  speak  a  few 
kind  words,  a  beautiful  smile  broke  over  the  delicate 
features  of  the  youth.  Throwing  himself  upon  the 
ground,  he  cried,  "Come  here,  Brave";  and  taking 
the  dog's  face  between  his  hands,  said  in  confidential 
tones,  ignoring  Mr.  Howitt's  presence,  "He's  a  good 
man,  ain't  he  brother?"  The  dog  answered  with 
wagging  tail.  "We  sure  like  him,  don't  we  ?"  The 
dog  gave  a  low  bark.  "Listen,  Brave,  listen."  He 
lifted  his  face  to  the  tree  tops,  then  turned  his  ear 
to  the  ground,  while  the  dog  too,  seemed  to  hearken. 
Again  that  strange  smile  illuminated  his  face;  "Yes, 
yes,  Brave,  we  sure  like  him.  And  the  tree  things 
like  him,  too,  brother;  and  the  flowers,  the  little 
flower  things  that  know  everything;  they're  all  a 
singin'  to  Pete  'cause  he's  come.  Did  you  see  the 
flower  things  in  his  eyes,  and  hear  the  tree  things  a 
talkin'  in  his  voice,  Brave?  And  see,  brother,  the 
sheep  like  him  too !"  Pointing  toward  the  stranger, 

laughed  aloud.  The  old  ewe  had  come  quite  close 
to  the  man,  and  one  of  the  lambs  was  nibbling  at  his 
trousers'  leg. 

Mr.  Howitt  seated  himself  on  the  stile  again,  and 
the  dog,  released  by  the  youth,  came  to  lie  down  at 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE   HILLS 

his  feet;  while  the  boy  seemed  to  forget  his  com 
panions,  and  appeared  to  be  listening  to  voices  un 
heard  by  them,  now  and  then  nodding  his  head  and 
moving  his  lips  in  answer. 

The  old  man  looked  long  and  thoughtfully  at  the 
youth,  his  own  face  revealing  a  troubled  mind.  This 
then  was  Pete,  Poor  Pete.  "Howard,"  whispered  the 
man;  "the  perfect  image;"  then  again  he  said,  half 
aloud,  "Howard." 

The  boy  turned  his  face  and  smiled ;  "That  ain't 
his  name,  Mister;  his  name's  Pete.  Pete  seen  you 
yesterday  over  on  Dewey,  and  Pete  he  heard  the  big 
hills  and  the  woods  a  singin'  when  you  talked.  But 
Jed  he  didn't  hear.  Jed  he  don't  hear  nothin'  but 
himself;  he  can't.  But  Pete  he  heard  and  all  Pete's 
people,  too.  And  the  gray  mist  things  come  out 
and  danced  along  the  mountain,  'cause  they  was  so 
glad  you  come.  And  Pete  went  with  you  along  the 
Old  Trail.  Course,  though,  you  didn't  know.  Do 
you  like  Pete's  people,  Mister?"  He  waved  his  hands 
to  include  the  forest,  the  mountains  and  the  sky ;  and 
there  was  a  note  of  anxiety  in  the  sweet  voice  as  he 
asked  again:  "Do  you  like  Pete's  friends?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  like  your  friends,"  replied  Mr. 
Howitt,  heartily ;  "and  I  would  like  to  be  your  friend 
too,  if  you  will  let  me.  What  is  your  other  name?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head;  "not  me;  not  me;';  he 
said;  "do  you  like  Pete?" 

48 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

The  man  was  puzzled.  "Are  you  not  Pete?"  he 
asked> 

The  delicate  face  grew  sad:  "No,  no,  no,"  he 
said  in  a  low  moaning  tone;  "I'm  not  Pete;  Pete,  he 
lives  in  here;"  he  touched  himself  on  the  breast.  "I 
am — I  am — "  A  look  of  hopeless  bewilderment 
crept  into  his  eyes;  "I  don't  know  who  I  am;  I'm 
jest  nobody.  Nobody  can't  have  no  name,  can  he?" 
Ee  stood  with  downcast  head;  then  suddenly  he 
raised  his  face  and  the  shadows  lifted,  as  he  said, 
( 'But  Pete  he  knows,  Mister,  ask  Pete." 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  Mr.  Howitt.  "Who  is 
your  father,  my  boy  ?" 

Instantly  the  brightness  vanished ;  again  the  words 
were  a  puzzled  moan ;  "I  ain't  got  no  father,  Mister ; 
I  ain't  me ;  nobody  can't  have  no  father,  can  he  ?* 

The  other  spoke  quickly ;  "But  Pete  had  a  father ; 
who  was  Pete's  father?"  Instantly  the  gloom  was 
gone  and  the  face  was  bright  again.  "Sure,  Mister, 
Pete's  got  a  father;  don't  you  know?  Everybody 
knows  that.  Look!"  he  pointed  upward  to  a  break 
in  the  trees,  to  a  large  cumulus  cloud  that  had  as 
sumed  a  fantastic  shape.  "He  lives  in  them  white 
hills,  up  there.  See  him,  Mister  ?  Sometimes  he 
takes  Pete  with  him  up  through  the  sky,  and  course 
I  go  along.  We  sail,  and  sail,  and  sail,  with  the  big 
bird  things  up  there,  while  the  sky  things  sing;  and 
sometimes  we  play  with  the  cloud  things,  all  day  in 

49 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

them  white  hills.  Pete  says  he'll  take  me  away  up 
there  where  the  star  things  live,  some  day,  and  we 
won't  never  come  back  again ;  and  I  won't  be  nobody 
no  more;  and  Aunt  Moliie  says  she  reckons  Pete 
knows.  'Course,  I'd  hate  mighty  much  to  go  away 
from  Uncle  Matt  and  Aunt  Moliie  and  Matt  and 
Sammy,  'cause  they're  mighty  good  to  me;  but  I  jest 
got  to  go  where  Pete  goes,  you  see,  'cause  I  ain't 
nobody,  and  nobody  can't  be  nothin',  can  he?" 

The  stranger  was  fascinated  by  the  wonderful 
charm  of  the  boy's  manner  and  words.  As  the  lad's 
sensitive  face  glowed  or  was  clouded  by  each  way 
ward  thought,  and  the  music  of  his  sweet  voice  rose 
and  fell.  Mr.  Howitt  told  himself  that  one  might 
easily  fancy  the  child  some  wandering  spirit  of  the 
woods  and  hills.  Aloud,  he  asked,  "Has  Pete  a 
mother,  too? 

The  youth  nodded  toward  the  big  pine  that  grew 
to  one  side  of  the  group,  and,  lowering  his  voice, 
-rolled,  "That's  Pete's  mother." 

Mr.  HowJtt  pointed  to  the  grave ;  "You  mean  she 
sleeps  there?" 

"No,  no,  not  there;  there!"  He  pointed  up  to  the 
big-  tree,  itself.  "She  never  sleeps ;  don't  you  hear 
n^r'J"  He  oaused.  The  wind  moaned  through  the 
branches  of  the  pine.  Drawing  closer  to  the  stran 
ger's  side,  the  boy  whispered,  "Sh*  alwavs  talks  that 
a  way,  always,  and  it  makes  Pete  feel  b&Jl. 

50 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

wants  somebody.  Hear  her  calling  calling  callin'  ? 
He'll  sure  come  some  day,  Mister :  he  sure  will.  Say, 
do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

The  stranger,  startled,  drew  back;  "2To,  no,  my 
boy,  certainly  not ;  what  do  you  mean ;  who  are  you  ?" 

Like  the  moaning  of  the  pines  came  the  reply, 
"2Tothin',  Mister,  nobody  can't  mean  nothing  can 
they?  I'm  jest  nobody.  But  Pete  lives  in  here;  ask 
Pete." 

"Is  Pete  watching  the  sheep  ?"  asked  Mr.  Howitt, 
anxious  to  divert  the  boy's  mind  to  other  channels. 

"Yes,  we're  a  tendin'  them  now;  but  they  can't 
trust  us,  you  know;  when  they  call  Pete,  he  just  goes, 
and  course  I've  got  to  go  'long." 

" Who  is  it  calls  Pete  ?" 

"Why,  they,  don't  you  know?  I  'lowed  you 
knowea  .about  things.  They  called  Pete  last  night. 
The  moonlight  things  was  out,  and  all  the  shadow 
things;  didn't  you  see  them,  Mister?  The  moon 
light  things,  the  vrind,  the  stars,  the  shadow  things, 
and  all  the  rest  played  with  Pete  in  the  shiny  mists, 
and,  course,  I  was  along.  Didn't  you  hear  singin'  ? 
Pete  he  always  sings  that  a  way,  when  the  moonlight 
things  is  out.  Seems  like  he  just  can't  help  it." 

"But  what  becomes  of  the  sheep  when  Pete  goes 
away  ?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head  sadly;  "Sometimes  chey 
get  so  lost  that  Young  Matt  can't  never  find  'emj, 

51 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

sometimes  wolves  get  'em;  it's  too  bad,  Mister,  it 
sure  is."  Then  laughing  aloud,  he  clapped  his  hands ; 
"There  was  a  feller  at  the  ranch  to  keep  'em,  but  he 
didn't  stay;  Ho!  Ho!  he  didn't  stay,  you  bet  he 
didn't.  Pete  didn't  like  him,  Brave  didn't  like  him, 
nothing  didn't  like  him,  the  trees  wouldn't  talk  when 
he  was  around,  the  flowers  died  when  he  looked  at 
'em,  and  the  birds  all  stopped  singin'  and  went  away 
over  the  mountains.  He  didn't  stay,  though."  Again 
he  laughed.  "You  bet  he  didn't  stay !  Pete  knows." 

"Why  did  the  man  go  ?"  asked  Mr.  Howitt,  think 
ing  to  solve  a  part  of  the  mystery,  at  least.  But  the 
only  answer  he  could  draw  from  the  boy  was,  "Pete 
knows ;  Pete  knows." 

Later  when  the  stranger  returned  to  the  house, 
Pete  went  with  him;  at  the  big  gate  they  met  Mr. 
Matthews,  returning  unsuccessful  from  his  trip. 

"Hello,  boy!"  said  the  big  man;  "How's  Pete 
today?" 

The  lad  went  with  glad  face  to  the  giant  moun 
taineer.  It  was  clear  that  the  two  were  the  warn?' 
est  friends.  "Pete's  mighty  glad  today,  'cause  he's 
come."  He  pointed  to  Mr.  Howitt. 

"Does  Pete  like  him  ?" 

The  boy  nodded.  "All  Pete's  people  like  him 
Ask  him  to  keep  the  sheep,  Uncle  Matt.  He  won't 
be  scared  at  the  shadow  things  in  the  night." 

Mr.  Matthews  smiled,  as  he  turned  to  his  guest 

53 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Pete  never  makes  a  mistake  in  his  judgment  of  men, 
Mr.  Howitt.  He's  different  from  us  ordinary  folks, 
as  you  can  see;  but  in  some  things  he  knows  a  heap 
more.  I'm  mighty  glad  he's  took  up  with  you,  sir. 
All  day  I've  been  thinking  I'd  tell  you  about  some 
things  I  don't  like  to  talk  about;  I  feel  after  last 
night  like  you'd  understand,  maybe,  and  might  help 
me,  you  having  education.  But  still  I've  been  a 
little  afraid,  us  being  such  strangers.  I  know  I'm 
right  now,  'cause  Pete  says  so.  If  you  weren't  the 
kind  of  a  man  I  think  you  are,  he'd  never  took  to  you 
like  he  has." 

That  night  the  mountaineer  told  the  stranger  from 
the  city  the  story  that  I  have  put  down  in  the  next 
chapter. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  STORY. 

>LOWLY  the  big  mountaineer  filled  his* 
cob   pipe  with   strong,    home   grown   to 
bacco,    watching    his    guest    keenly    the 
while,  from  under  heavy  brows. 
Behind  the  dark  pines  the  sky  was  blood  red,  and 
below,   Mutton  Hollow  was  fast  being  lost  in  the 
gathering  gloom. 

When  his  pipe  was  lighted,  Old  Matt  said,  "Well, 
sir,  I  reckon  you  think  some  things  you  seen  and 
heard  since  you  come  last  night  are  mighty  queer.  I 
ain't  sayin'  neither,  but  what  you  got  reasons  for 
thinkin'  so." 

Mr.  Howitt  made  no  reply.  And,  after  puffing  a 
few  moments  in  silence,  the  other  continued,  "If  i* 
weren't  for  what  you  said  last  night  makin'  me  feel 
like  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  and  Pete  a  takin'  up 
with  you  the  way  he  has,  I  wouldn't  be  a  tellin'  you 
what  I  am  goin'  to  now.  There's  some  trails,  Mr. 
Howitt,  that  ain't  pleasant  to  go  back  over.  I  didn't 
'low  to  ever  go  over  this  one  again.  Did  you  and 
Pete  talk  much  this  afternoon?" 

In  a  few  words  Mr.  Howitt  told  of  his  meeting 
with  the  strange  boy,  and  their  conversation.  When 

54 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

he  had  finished,  the  big  man  smoked  in  silence.  It 
was  as  if  he  found  it  hard  to  begin.  From  a  tree 
on  the  mountain  side  below,  a  screech  owl  sent  up  his 
long,  quavering  call;  a  bat  darted  past  in  the  dusk: 
and  away  over  on  Compton  Ridge  a  hound  bayed. 
The  mountaineer  spoke;  "That's  Sam  Wilson's  dog, 
Eanger;  must  a'  started  a  fox."  The  sound  died 
away  in  the  distance.  Old  Matt  began  his  story. 

"Our  folks  all  live  back  in  Illinois.  And  if  I  do 
say  so,  they  are  as  good  stock  as  you'll  find  anywhere, 
But  there  was  a  lot  of  us,  and  I  always  had  a  notiop 
to  settle  in  a  new  country  where  there  was  more 
room  like  and  land  wasn't  so  dear ;  so  when  wife  and 
I  was  married  we  come  out  here.  I  recollect  we 
camped  at  the  spring  below  Jim  Lane's  cabin  on  yon 
side  of  Old  Dewey,  there.  That  was  before  Jim  was 
married,  and  a  wild  young  buck  he  was  too,  as  ever 
you  see.  The  next  day  wife  and  I  rode  along  the 
Old  Trail  'til  we  struck  this  gap,  and  here  we've 
been  ever  since. 

"We've  had  our  ups  and  downs  like  most  folks, 
sir,  and  sometimes  it  looked  like  they  was  mostly 
downs ;  but  we  got  along,  and  last  fall  I  bought  in  the 
ranch  down  there  in  the  Hollow.  The  boy  was  just 
eighteen  and  we  thought  then  that  he'd  be  makin'  his 
home  there  some  day.  I  don't  know  how  that'll  be 
now,  but  there  was  another  reason  too  why  we  wanted 
the  place,  as  you'll  see  when  I  get  to  it. 

55 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"There  was  five  other  boys,  as  I  told  you  last  night. 
The  oldest  two  would  hate  been  men  now.  The  girl" 
— his  voice  broke — "the  girl  she  come  third ;  she  was 
twenty  when  we  buried  her  over  there.  That  was 
fifteen  year  ago  come  the  middle  of  next  month. 

"Everybody  'lowed  she  was  a  mighty  pretty  baby, 
and,  bein'  the  onlj  girl,  I  reckon  we  made  more  of 
her  than  we  did  of  the  boys.  She  growed  up  into  a 
mighty  fine  young  woman  too ;  strong,  and  full  of  fire 
and  go,  like  Sammy  Lane.  >  Seems  to  wife  and  me 
when  Sammy's  'round  that  it's  our  own  girl  come 
back  and  we've  always  hoped  that  she  and  Grant 
would  take  the  ranch  down  yonder;  but  I  reckon 
that's  all  over,  now  that  Ollie  Stewart  has  come  into 
such  a  fine  thing  in  the  city.  Anyway,  it  ain't  got 
nothing  to  do  with  this  that  I'm  a  tellin'  you. 

"She  didn't  seem  to  care  nothin'  at  all  for  none 
of  the  neighbor  boys  like  most  girls  do;  she'd  go 
with  them  and  have  a  good  time  alright,  but  that  was 
all.  '.Feared  like  she'd  rather  be  with  her  brothers 
or  her  mother  or  me. 

"Well,  one  day,  when  we  was  out  on  the  range  a 
ridin'  for  stock — she'd  often  go  with  me  that  way — 
we  met  a  stranger  over  there  at  the  deer  lick  in  the 
big  low  gap,  coming  along  the  Old  Trail.  He  was  as 
fine  a  lookin'  man  as  you  ever  see,  sir ;  big  and  grand 
like,  with  lightish  hair,  kind  of  wavy,  and  a  big 
mustache  like  his  hair,  and  fine  white  teeth  showing 

56 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

when  he  smiled.  He  was  sure  good  lookin',  aamn 
him !  and  with  his  fine  store  clothes  and  a  smooth  easy 
way  of  talkin'  and  actin'  he  had,  'tain't  no  wonder 
she  took  up  with  him.  We  all  did.  I  used  to  think 
God  never  made  a  finer  body  for  a  man.  I  know  now 
that  Hell  don't  hold  a  meaner  heart  than  the  one  in 
that  same  fine  body.  And  that's  somethin'  that 
bothers  me  a  heap,  Mr.  Howitt. 

"As  I  say,  our  girl  was  built  like  Sammy  Lane, 
and  so  far  as  looks  goes  she  was  his  dead  match.  I 
used  to  wonder  when  I'd  look  at  them  together  if 
there  ever  was  such  another  fine  lookin'  pair.  I  ain't 
a  goin'  to  tell  you  his  name;  there  ain't  no  call  to, 
as  I  can  see.  There  might  be  some  decent  man 
named  the  same.  But  he  was  one  of  these  here  artist 
fellows  and  had  come  into  the  hills  to  paint,  he 
said." 

A  smothered  exclamation  burst  from  the  listener. 

Mr.  Matthews,  not  noticing,  continued:  "He  sure 
did  make  a  lot  of  pictures  and  they  seemed  mighty 
nice  to  us,  'though  of  course  we  didn't  know  nothin' 
about  such  things.  There  was  one  big  one  he  made  of 
Maggie  that  was  as  natural  as  life.  He  was  always 
rlrawin'  of  her  in  one  way  or  another,  and  had  a  lot 
cf  little  pictures  that  didn't  amount  to  much,  and 
that  he  didn't  never  finish.  But  this  big  one  he 
worked  at  off  and  on  all  summer.  It  was  sure  fine, 
with  her  a  standin'  by  the  ranch  spring,  holdin'  out 

57 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  cup  of  water,  and  smilin'  like  she  was  offerin'  you 
a  drink." 

It  was  well  that  the  night  had  fallen.  At  Old 
Matt's  words  the  stranger  shrank  back  in  his  chair, 
his  hands  raised  as  if  to  ward  off  a  deadly  blow.  He 
made  a  sound  in  his  throat  as  if  he  would  cry  out, 
but  could  not  from  horror  or  fear.  But  the  darkness 
hid  his  face,  and  the  mountaineer,  with  mind  intent 
upon  his  story,  did  not  heed. 

"He  took  an  old  cabin  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  near 
where  the  sheep  corral  is  now,  and  fixed  it  up  to 
work  in.  The  shack  had  been  built  first  by  old  man 
Dewey,  him  that  the  mountain's  named  after.  It 
was  down  there  he  painted  the  big  picture  of  her 
a  standin'  by  the  big  spring.  We  never  thought 
nothin'  about  her  bein'  with  him  so  much.  Country 
folks  is  that  way,  Mr.  Howitt,  'though  we  ought  to 
knowed  better;  we  sure  ought  to  knowed  better.'* 
The  old  giant  paused  and  for  some  time  sat  with  his 
head  bowed,  his  forgotten  pipe  on  the  floor. 

"Well,"  he  began  again;  "he  stopped  with  us  all 
that  summer,  and  then  one  day  he  went  out  as  usual 
and  didn't  come  back.  We  hunted  the  hills  out  for 
signs,  thinkin'  maybe  he  met  up  with  some  trouble. 
He'd  sent  all  his  pictures  away  the  week  before, 
Jim  Lane  haulin'  them  to  the  settlement  for  him. 

"The  girl  was  nigh  about  wild  and  rode  with  me 
all  durin'  the  hunt,  and  once  when  we  saw  some 

58 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

buzzards  circlin',  she  gave  a  little  cry  and  turned  so 
white  that  I  suspicioned  maybe  she  got  to  thinkin'" 
more  of  him  than  we  knew.  Then  one  afternoon 
when  we  were  down  yonder  in  the  Hollow,  she  says, 
all  of  a  sudden  like,  'Daddy,  it  ain't  no  use  a  ridin' 
no  more.  He  ain't  met  up  with  no  trouble.  He's 
left  all  the  trouble  with  us.'  She  looked  so  piqued 
and  her  eyes  were  so  big  and  starin'  that  it  come  over 
me  in  a  flash  what  she  meant.  She  saw  in  a  minute 
that  I  sensed  it,  and  just  hung  her  head,  and  we 
come  home. 

"She  just  kept  a  gettin'  worse  and  worse,  Mr.  How- 
itt;  'peared  to  fade  away  like,  like  I  watched  them 
big  glade  lilies  do  when  the  hot  weather  comes. 
About  the  only  time  she  would  show  any  life  at  all 
was  when  someone  would  go  for  the  mail,  when  she'd 
always  be  at  the  gate  a  waitin'  for  us. 

"Then  one  day,  a  letter  come.  I  brung  it  myself. 
She  give  a  little  cry  when  I  handed  it  to  her,  and 
run  into  the  house,  most  like  her  old  self.  I  went  on 
out  to  the  barn  to  put  up  my  horse,  thinkin'  maybe 
it  was  goin'  to  be  alright  after  all ;  but  pretty  soon, 
I  heard  a  scream  and  then  a  laugh.  'Fore  God,  sir, 
that  laugh's  a  ringin'  in  my  ears  yet,  She  was  ravin* 
mad  when  I  got  to  her,  a  laughin',  and  a  screechin', 
and  tryin'  to  hurt  herseU,  all  the  while  callin'  for 
him  to  come. 

"*  retd  the  letter  afterwards.     It  told  over  and 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

over  how  lie  loved  her  and  how  no  woman  could  ever 
be  to  him  what  she  was ;  said  they  was  made  for  each 
other,  and  all  that;  and  then  it  went  on  to  say  how 
he  couldn't  never  see  her  again ;  and  told  about  what 
a  grand  old  family  his  was,  and  how  his  father  was 
so  proud  and  expected  such  great  things  from  him, 
that  he  didn't  dare  tell,  them  bein'  the  last  of  this 
here  old  family,  and  her  bein'  a  backwoods  girl, 
without  any  schoolin'  or  no  thin'." 

"My  God!  O,  my  God!"  faltered  tfo  stranger's 
voice  in  the  darkness. 

Old  Matt  talked  on  in  a  hard  easy  tone.  "Course 
it  was  all  wrote  out  nice  and  smooth  like  he  talked, 
but  that's  the  sense  of  it.  He  finished  it  by  say  in' 
that  he  would  be  on  his  way  to  the  old  country  when 
the  letter  reached  her,  and  that  it  wouldn't  be  no  use 
to  try  to  find  him. 

"The  girl  quieted  down  after  a  spell,  but  her  mind 
never  come  back.  She  wasn't  just  to  say  plumb 
crazy,  but  she  seemed  kind  o'  dazed  and  lost  like,  and 
wouldn't  take  no  notice  of  nobody.  Acted  all  the* 
time  like  she  was  expectin'  him  to  come.  And  she'd 
stand  out  there  by  the  gate  for  hours  at  a  time, 
watchin'  the  Old  Trail  and  talkin'  low  to  herself. 

"Pete  is  her  boy,  Mr.  Howitt,  and  as  you've  seen 
he  ain't  just  right.  Seems  like  he  was  marked  some 
way  in  his  mind  like  you've  seen  other  folks  marked 
in  their  bodies.  We've  done  our  best  by  the  boy,  sir, 

60 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE   HILLS 

but  I  don't  guess  ne'll  ever  be  any  better.  Once  for  a 
spell  we  tried  keepin'  him  to  home,  but  he  got  right 
sick  and  would  o'  died  sure,  if  we  hadn't  let  him  go ; 
it  was  pitiful  to  see  him.  Everybody  'lows  there 
won't  nothin'  in  the  woods  hurt  him  nohow;  so  we 
let  him  come  and  go,  as  he  likes ;  and  he  just  stops 
with  the  neighbors  wherever  he  happens  in.  Folks 
are  all  as  good  to  him  as  they  can  be,  'cause  everybody 
knows  how  it  is.  You  see,  sir,  people  here  don't 
think  nothin'  of  a  wood's  colt,  nohow,  but  we  was 
raised  different.  As  wife  says,  we've  most  forgot 
civilized  ways,  but  I  guess  there's  some  things  a  man 
that's  been  raised  right  can't  never  forget. 

"She  died  when  Pete  was  born,  and  the  last  thing 
she  said  was,  'He'll  come,  Daddy,  he'll  sure  come.' 
Pete  says  the  wind  singin'  in  that  big  pine  over  her 
grave  is  her  a  callin'  for  him  yet.  It's  mighty  queer 
how  the  boy  got  that  notion,  but  you  see  that's  the  way 
it  is  with  him. 

"And  that  ain't  all,  sir."  The  big  man  moved  his 
chair  nearer  the  other,  and  lowered  his  voice  to  a 
hoarse  whisper ;  "Folks  say  she's  come  back.  There's 
them  that  swears  they've  seen  her  'round  the  old 
cabin  where  they  used  to  meet  when  he  painted  her 
picture,  the  big  one,  you  know.  Just  before  I  bought 
the  ranch,  it  was  first;  and  that's  why  we  can't  get 
no  one  to  stay  with  the  sheep. 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Howitt;  I  don't  know.     I've 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

thought  a  heap  about  it,  I  ain't  never  seen  it  myself, 
and  it  'pears  to  me  that  if  she  could  come  back  at 
all,  she'd  sure  come  to  her  old  Daddy.  Then  again 
I  figure  it  that  bein'  took  the  way  she  was,  part  of 
her  dead,  so  to  speak,  from  the  time  she  got  that  let 
ter,  and  her  mind  so  set  on  his  comin'  back,  that 
maybe  somehow — you  see — that  maybe  she  is  sort  a 
waitin'  for  him  there.  Many's  the  time  I  have 
prayed  all  night  that  God  would  let  me  meet  him 
again  just  once,  or  that  proud  father  of  his'n,  just 
once,  sir;  I'd  glad  go  to  Hell  if  I  could  only  meet 
them  first.  If  she  is  waitin'  for  him  down  there, 
he'll  come;  he'll  sure  come.  Hell  couldnt  hold  him 
against  such  as  Ihat,  and  when  he  comes — " 

Unconsciously,  as  he  spoke  the  last  sentences,  the 
giant's  voice  took  a  tone  of  terrible  meaning,  and  he 
slowly  rose  from  his  seat.  When  he  uttered  the  last 
word  he  was  standing  erect,  his  muscles  tense,  his 
powerful  frame  shaken  with  passion. 

There  was  an  inarticulate  cry  of  horror,  as  the 
mountaineer's  guest  started  to  his  feet.  A  moment 
he  stood,  then  sank  back  into  his  chair,  a  cowering, 
shivering  heap. 

Long  into  the  night,  the  stranger  walked  the  floor 
of  his  little  room  under  the  roof,  his  face  drawn  and 
white,  whispering  half  aloud  things  that  would  have 
startled  his  unsuspecting  host.  "My  boy — my  boy— 


62 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

mine!  To  do  such  a  thing  as  that!  Howard — How 
ard.  O  Christ !  that  I  should  live  to  be  glad  that  you 
are  dead!  And  that  picture!  His  masterpiece,  the 
picture  that  made  his  fame,  the  picture  he  would 
never  part  with,  and  that  we  could  never  find!  I 
see  it  all  now!  Just  God,  what  a  thing  to  carry  on 
one's  soul !" 

Once  he  paused  to  stand  at  the  window,  looking 
down  upon  the  valley.  The  moon  had  climbed  high 
above  the  mountain,  but  beneath  the  flood  of  silver 
light  the  shadows  lay  dark  and  deep  in  Mutton  Hol 
low.  Then  as  he  stood  there,  from  out  the  shadowy 
gloom,  came  the  wild  weird  song  they  had  heard  the 
evening  before.  The  man  at  the  window  groaned. 
The  song  sank  to  a  low,  moaning  wail,  and  he  seemed 
to  hear  again  the  wind  in  the  pine  above  the  grave 
of  the  murdered  girl.  She  was  calling,  calling — 
would  he  come  back  ?  Back  from  the  grave,  could  he 
come?  The  words  of  the  giant  mountaineer  seemed 
burned  into  the  father's  brain;  "Hell  couldn't  hold 
him  against  such  as  that.19 

Then  the  man  with  the  proud  face,  the  face  of  a 
scholar  and  poet,  drew  back  from  the  window,  shak 
ing  with  a  fear  he  could  not  control.  He  crept  into  a 
corner  and  crouched  upon  the  floor.  With  wide 
eyes,  he  stared  into  the  dark.  He  prayed. 

And  this  is  how  it  came  about  that  the  stranger* 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

who  followed  the  Old  Trail  along  the  higher  sunlit 
ground,  followed,  also,  the  other  trail  down  into  the 
valley  where  the  gloomy  shadows  are;  there  to  live 
at  the  ranch  near  the  haunted  cabin — the  shepherd 
of  Mutton  Hollow. 


and  when  he  comet."     Page  66 

Tht  Shepherd  of  the  Hillt 


CHAPTER  VII. 
WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

'AMMY  LANE  rode  very  slowly  on  her 
way  home  from  the  Matthews  place  that 
morning  after  the  stranger  had  arrived. 
She  started  out  at  her  usual  reckless 
gait,  but  that  was  because  she  knew  that  Young  Matt 
was  watching  her. 

Once  in  the  timber,  the  brown  pony  was  pulled 
to  a  walk,  and  by  the  time  they  came  out  into  the 
open  again,  the  little  horse,  unrebuked  by  his  mis 
tress,  was  snatching  mouthfuls  of  grass  as  he  strolled 
along  the  trail.  Sammy  was  thinking;  thinking 
very  seriously.  Aunt  Mollie's  parting  question  had 
stirred  the  girl  deeply. 

Sammy  had  seen  few  people  who  did  not  belong 
to  the  backwoods.  The  strangers  she  had  met  were 
hunters  or  cattlemen,  and  these  had  all  been,  in  dress 
and  manner,  not  unlike  the  natives  themselves.  This 
man,  who  had  come  so  unexpectedly  out  of  the  mists 
the  night  before,  was  unlike  anyone  the  young 
woman  had  ever  known.  Like  Jed  Holland,  she  felt 
somehow  as  if  he  were  a  superior  being.  The  Mat 
thews  family  were  different  in  many  ways  from  those 

65 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

born  and  raised  in  the  hills.  And  Sammy's  father^ 
too,  was  different.  But  this  stranger — it  was  quite  as 
though  he  belonged  to  another  world. 

Coming  to  the  big,  low  gap,  the  girl  looked  fur 
away  to  the  blue  line  of  hills,  miles,  and  miles  away. 
The  stranger  had  come  from  over  there,  she  thought ; 
and  then  she  fell  to  wondering  what  that  world  be 
yond  the  farthest  cloud-like  ridge  was  like. 

Of  all  the  people  Sammy  had  ever  known,  young 
Stewart  was  the  only  one  who  had  seen  even  the  edge 
of  that  world  to  tell  her  about  it.  Her  father  and 
her  friends,  the  Matthews' s,  never  talked  of  the  old 
days.  She  had  known  Ollie  from  a  child.  With 
Young  Matt  they  had  gone  to  and  from  the  log  school 
house  along  the  same  road.  Once,  before  Mr.  Stew 
art's  death,  the  boy  had  gone  with  his  father  for  a 
day's  visit  to  the  city,  and  ever  after  had  been  a  hero 
to  his  backwoods  schoolmates.  It  was  this  distinc 
tion,  really,  that  first  won  Sammy's  admiration,  and 
made  them  sweethearts  before  the  girl's  skirts  had 
touched  the  tops  of  her  shoes.  Before  the  woman  in 
her  was  fairly  awake  she  had  promised  to  be  his 
wife ;  and  they  were  going  away  now  to  live  in  that 
enchanted  land. 

Spying  an  extra  choice  bunch  of  grass  a  few  steps 
to  one  side  of  the  path,  Brownie  turned  suddenly 
toward  the  valley,  and  the  girl's  eyes  left  the  distant 
ridge  for  the  little  cabin  and  the  sheep  corral  in 

66 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF    THE   HILLS 

Mutton  Hollow.  Sammy  always  spoke  of  that 
cabin  as  "Young  Matt's  house."  And,  all  unbidden 
now,  the  thought  came,  who  would  live  with  the  big 
fellow  down  there  in  the  valley  when  she  had  gone 
far  away  to  make  her  home  with  Ollie  and  his  people 
in  the  city? 

An  impatient  tug  at  the  reins  informed  Brownie 
that  his  mistress  was  aware  of  his  existence,  and,  for 
a  time,  the  pony  was  obliged  to  pass  many  a  luscious 
bunch  of  grass.  But  soon  the  reins  fell  slack  again. 
The  little  horse  moved  slowly,  and  still  more  slowly, 
until,  by  the  relaxed  figure  of  his  rider,  he  knew  it 
was  safe  to  again  browse  on  the  grass  along  the  path. 

So,  wondering,  dreaming,  Sammy  Lane  rode 
down  the  trail  that  morning — the  trail  that  is  no 
body  knows  how  old.  And  on  the  hill  back  of  the 
Matthews  house  a  team  was  standing  idle  in  the 
middle  of  the  field. 

At  the  big  rock  on  the  mountain  side,  where  the 
trail  seems  to  pause  a  moment  before  starting  down 
to  the  valley,  the  girl  slipped  from  her  saddle,  and, 
leaving  Brownie  to  wander  at  will,  climbed  to  her 
favorite  seat.  Half  reclining  in  the  warm  sunshine, 
she  watched  the  sheep  feeding  near,  and  laughed 
aloud  as  she  saw  the  lambs  with  wagging  tails,  greed 
ily  sucking  at  their  mother's  sides ;  near  by  in  a 
black-haw  bush  a  mother  bird  sat  on  her  nest ;  a  gray 
mare,  with  a  week  old  colt  following  on  unsteady 

67 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

legs,  came  over  the  ridge ;  and  not  far  away ;  a  mother 
sow  with  ten  squealing  pigs  came  out  of  the  timber. 
Keeping  very  still  the  young  woman  watched  until 
they  disappeared  around  the  mountain.  Then,  lift' 
ing  her  arms  above  her  head,  she  stretched  her  lithe 
form  out  upon  the  warm  rocky  couch  with  the  free 
dom  and  grace  of  a  wild  thing  of  the  woods* 

Sammy  Lane  knew  nothing  of  the  laws  and  cus 
toms  of  the,  so-called,  best  society.  Her  splendid 
young  womanhood  was  not  the  product  of  those 
social  traditions  and  rules  that  kill  the  instinct  of  her 
kind  before  it  is  fairly  born.  She  was  as  free  and  as 
physically  perfect  as  any  of  the  free  creatures  that 
lived  in  the  hills.  And,  keenly  alive  to  the  life  that 
throbbed  and  surged  about  her,  her  woman's  heart 
and  soul  responded  to  the  spirit  of  the  season.  The 
droning  of  the  bees  in  the  blossoms  that  grew  in  a 
cranny  of  the  rock;  the  tinkle,  tinkle  of  the  sheep 
bells,  as  the  flock  moved  slowly  in  their  feeding ;  and 
the  soft  breathing  of  Mother  Earth  was  in  her  ears ; 
while  the  gentle  breeze  that  stirred  her  hair  came 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  growing  things.  Lying  so, 
she  looked  far  up  into  the  blue  sky  where  a  buzzard 
floated  on  lazy  wings.  If  she  were  up  there  she 
perhaps  could  see  that  world  beyond  the  hills.  Then 
suddenly  a  voice  came  to  her,  Aunt  Mollie's  voice, 
"How  do  you  reckon  you'll  like  bein'  a  tine  lady, 
Sammy,  and  a  livin'  in  the  city  with  the  big  folks  I" 

68 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  ffHE  HILLS 

The  girl  turned  on  her  side  and  rising  on  one 
elbow  looked  again  at  Mutton  Hollow  with  its  little 
cabin  half  hidden  in  the  timber.  And,  as  she  looked, 
slowly  her  rich  red  life  colored  cheek,  and  neck,  and 
brew.  With  a  gesture  of  impatience,  Sammy  turned 
away  to  her  own  home  on  the  southern  slope  of  the 
mountain,  just  in  time  to  see  a  young  woman  ride 
into  the  clearing  and  dismount  before  the  cabin  door. 
It  was  her  friend,  Mandy  Ford.  The  girl  on  the 
rock  whistled  to  her  pony,  and,  mounting,  made  her 
way  down  the  hill. 

All  that  day  the  strange  guest  at  the  Matthews 
place  was  the  one  topic  of  conversation  between  the 
two  girls. 

"Shucks,"  said  Mandy,  when  Sammy  had  finished 
a  very  minute  description  of  Mr.  Howitt;  "he's  jest 
some  revenue,  like's  not." 

Sammy  tossed  her  head ;  "Ke venue !  you  ought  to 
see  him !  Revenues  don't  come  in  no  such  clothes  as 
them,  and  they  don't  talk  like  him,  neither." 

"Can't  tell  'bout  revenues,"  retorted  the  other. 
"Don't  you  mind  how  that'n  fooled  everybody  over 
on  th'  bend  last  year?  He  was  jest  as  common  as 
common,  and  folks  all  'lowed  he  was  just  one  of  'em." 

"But  this  one  ain't  like  anybody  that  we  ever  met 
up  with,  and  that's  jest  it,"  returned  Sammy. 

Mandy  shook  her  head ;  "You  say  he  ain't  huntin' ; 
he  sure  ain't  buyin'  cattle  this  time  o'  year ;  and  he 

69 


THE   SHEPHERD   OF   THE    HILLS 

ain't  a  wantin'  t'  locate  a  comin'  in  on  foot;  what 
else  can  he  be  but  revenue?" 

To  which  Sammy  replied  with  an  unanswerable 
argument;  "Look  a  here,  Mandy  Ford;  you  jest  tell 
me,  would  a  low  down  revenue  ask  a  blessin'  like  Par 
son  Bigelow  does?" 

At  this  Mandy  gave  up  the  case,  saying  in  despair, 
"Well,  what  is  he  a  doin'  here  then?  Tain't  likely 
he's  done  come  into  th'  woods  for  nothin'." 

"He  told  Old  Matt  that  he  was  sick  and  tired  of  it 
all,"  answered  the  other. 

"Did  he  look  like  he  was  ailin'?" 

Sammy  replied  slowly,  "I  don't  reckon  it's  that 
kind  of  sickness  he  meant;  and  when  you  look  right 
close  into  his  eyes,  he  does  'pear  kind  o'  used  up 
like." 

In  connection  with  this  discussion,  it  was  easy  to 
speak  of  Miss  Lane's  fairy  prospects,  for,  was  not  the 
stranger  from  the  city?  and  was  not  Sammy  going  to 
live  in  that  land  of  wonders?  The  two  girls  were 
preparing  for  the  night,  when  Sammy,  who  was 
seated  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  paused,  with  one  shoe 
off,  to  ask  thoughtfully,  "Mandy,  what  is  love,  any 
how?" 

Mandy  looked  surprised.  "I  reckon  you  ought  to 
know,"  she  said  with  a  laugh ;  "Ollie's  been  a  hangin' 
'round  you  ever  since  I  can  remember." 

Sammy  was  struggling  with  a  knot  in  the  other 

70 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

shoe  lace;  "Yes,"  she  admitted  slowly;  "I  reckon 
I  had  ought  to  know;  but  what  do  you  say  it  is, 
Mandy?" 

"Why,  hit's — hit's — jest  a  caring  fer  somebody 
more'n  fer  ary  one  else  in  th'  whole  world." 

"Is  that  all  ?"    The  knot  was  still  stubborn. 

"No,  hit  ain't  all.  Hit's  a  goin'  t'  live  with  some 
body  an'  a  lettin'  him  take  care  o'  you,  'stead  o'  your 
folks."  Sammy  was  still  struggling  with  the  knot. 
"An'  hit's  a  cookin'  an'  a  scrubbin'  an'  a  mendin'  fer 
him,  an' — an; — sometimes  hit's  a  splittin'  wood,  an' 
a  doin'  chores,  too ;  an'  I  reckon  that's  all." 

Just  here  the  knot  came  undone,  and  the  shoe 
dropped  to  the  floor  with  a  thud.  Sammy  sat  up 
right.  "No,  it  ain't,  Mandy ;  it's  a  heap  more'n  that ; 
it's  a  nursin'  babies,  and  a  takin'  care  of  'em  'till 
they're  growed  up,  and  then  when  they're  big  enough 
to  take  care  o'  themselves,  and  you're  old  and  in  the 
way,  like  Grandma  Bowles,  it's  a  lookin'  back  over  it 
all,  and  bein'  glad  you  done  married  the  man  you  did. 
It's  a  heap  more'n  livin'  with  a  man,  Mandy;  it's  a 
doin'  all  that,  without  ever  once  wishin'  he  was  some 
body  else." 

This  was  too  much  for  Mandy;  she  blushed  and 
giggled,  then  remarked,  as  she  gazed  admiringly  at 
her  friend,  "You'll  look  mighty  fine,  Sammy,  when 
you  get  fixed  up  with  all  them  pretties  you'll  have 
when  you  an'  Ollie  git  married.  I  wish  my  hair 

71 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

was  bright  an'  shiny  like  yourn.  How  do  you  reckon 
you'll  like  bein'  a  fine  lady  anyhow?" 

Here  it  was  again.  Sammy  turned  upon  her  help 
less  friend,  with,  "How  do  I  know  if  I  would  like  it 
or  not  ?  What  is  bein'  a  fine  lady,  anyhow  ?" 

"Why,  bein'  a  fine  lady  is — is  livin'  in  a  big  house 
with  carpets  on  th'  floor,  an'  lookin'  glasses,  an'  not 
havin'  no  work  t'  do,  an'  wearin'  pretty  clothes,  with 
lots  of  rings  an'  things,  an' — an',"  she  paused;  then 
finished  in  triumph,  "an'  a  ridin'  in  a  carriage." 

That  wide  questioning  look  was  in  Sammy's  eyes 
as  she  returned,  "It's  a  heap  more'n  that,  Mandy.  I 
don't  jest  sense  what  it  is,  but  I  know  't ain't  all 
them  things  that  makes  a  sure  'nough  lady.  'Tain't 
the  clothes  he  wears  that  makes  Mr.  Howitt  different 
from  the  folks  we  know.  He  don't  wear  no  rings,  and 
he  walks.  He's  jest  different  'cause  he's  different; 
and  would  be,  no  matter  what  he  had  on  or  where  he 
was." 

This,  too,  was  beyond  Mandy.  Sammy  continued, 
as  she  finished  her  preparations  for  retiring;  "This 
here  house  is  plenty  big  enough  for  me,  least  wise  it 
would  be  if  it  had  one  more  room  like  the  cabin  in 
Mutton  Hollow;  carpets  would  be  mighty  dirty  and 
unhandy  to  clean  when  the  men  folks  come  trampin' 
in  with  their  muddy  boots ;  I  wouldn't  want  to  wear 
no  dresses  so  fine  I  couldn't  knock  'round  in  the 
brush  with  them;  and  it  would  be  awful  to  have 

72 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

nothin*  to  do;  as  for  a  carriage,  I  wouldn't  swap 
Brownie  for  a  whole  city  full  of  carriages."  She 
slipped  into  bed  and  stretched  out  luxuriously.  "Do 
you  reckon  I  could  be  a  fine  lady,  and  be  as  I  am 
now,  a  livin'  here  in  the  hills?" 

The  next  day  Mandy  went  back  to  her  home  on 
Jake  Creek.  And  in  the  evening  Sammy's  father, 
with  Wash  Gibbs,  returned,  both  men  and  horses 
showing  the  effects  of  a  long,  hard  ride. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"WHY  AIN'T  WE  GOT  NO  FOLKS." 


BILL  says,  "There's  a  heap 
o'  difference  in  most  men,  but  Jim  Lane 
now  he's  more  different  than  ary  man 
you  ever  seed.  Ain't  no  better  neighbor'n 
Jim  anywhere.  Ride  out  o'  his  way  any  time  t'  do 
you  a  favor.  But  you  bet  there  ain't  ary  man  lives 
can  ask  Jim  any  fool  questions  while  Jim's  a  lookin' 
at  him.  Tried  it  onct  myself.  Jim  was  a  waitin' 
at  th'  ferry  fer  Wash  Gibbs,  an'  we  was  a  talkin' 
'long  right  peart  'bout  crops  an'  th'  weather  an'  such, 
when  I  says,  says  I,  like  a  dumb  ol'  fool,  'How'd  you 
like  it  down  in  Texas,  Jim,  when  you  was  there  that 
time?'  I  gonies!  His  jaw  shet  with  a  click  like 
he'd  cocked  a  pistol,  an'  that  look  o'  hisn,  like  he 
was  a  seein'  plumb  through  you,  come  int'  his  eyes, 
an'  he  says,  says  he,  quiet  like,  'D'  you  reckon  that 
rain  over  on  James  yesterday  raised  th'  river  much  ?' 
An'  'fore  I  knowed  it,  I  was  a  tellin'  him  how  that 
ol'  red  bull  o'  mine  treed  th'  Perkins'  boys  when  they 
was  a  possum  huntin'." 

Many  stories  of  the  Bald  Knobber  days,  when  the 
law  of  the  land  was  the  law  of  rifle  and  rope,  were 

74 


THE   SHEPHERD   OF   THE    HILLS 

drifting  about  the  country  side,  and  always,  when 
these  tales  were  recited,  the  name  of  Jim  Lane  was 
whispered;  while  the  bolder  ones  wondered  beneath 
their  breath  where  Jim  went  so  much  with  that  Wash 
Gibbs,  whose  daddy  was  killed  by  the  Government. 

Mr.  Lane  was  a  tall  man,  well  set  up,  with  some 
thing  in  his  face  and  bearing  that  told  of  good  breed 
ing;  southern  blood,  one  would  say,  by  the  dark 
skin,  and  the  eyes,  hair,  and  drooping  mustache  of 
black. 

His  companion,  Wash  Gibbs,  was  a  gigantic  man; 
taller  and  heavier,  even,  than  the  elder  Matthews,  but 
more  loosely  put  together  than  Old  Matt ;  with  coarse, 
heavy  features,  and,  as  Grandma  Bowles  said,  "the 
look  of  a  sheep  killin'  dog."  Grandma,  being  very 
near  her  journey's  end,  could  tell  the  truth  even  about 
Wash  Gibbs,  but  others  spoke  of  the  giant  only  in 
whispers,  save  when  they  spoke  in  admiration  of  his 
physical  powers. 

As  the  two  men  swung  stiffly  from  their  saddles, 
Sammy  came  running  to  greet  her  father  with  a  kiss 
of  welcome ;  this  little  exhibition  of  affection  between 
parent  and  child  was  one  of  the  many  things  that 
marked  the  Lanes  as  different  from  the  natives  of  that 
region.  Your  true  backwoodsman  carefully  hides 
every  sign  of  his  love  for  either  family  or  friends. 
Wash  Gibbs  stood  looking  on  with  an  expression  upon 
his  brutal  face  that  had  very  little  of  the  human  in  it. 

75 


THE  SHEPHEED  OP  THE  HILLS 

Releasing  his  daughter,  Mr.  Lane  said,  "Got  any 
thing  to  eat,  honey  ?  We're  powerful  hungry.  Wash 
lowed  we'd  better  tie  up  at  the  river,  but  I  knew 
you'd  be  watching  for  me.  The  horses  are  plumb 
beat."  And  Gibbs  broke  in  with  a  coarse  laugh,  "I 
wouldn't  mind  killin'  a  hoss  neither,  if  I  was  t'  git 
what  you  do  at  th'  end  o'  th'  ride." 

To  this,  Jim  made  no  reply;  but  began  loosening 
the  saddle  girths,  while  Sammy  only  said,  as  she 
turned  toward  the  house,  "I'll  have  supper  ready  for 
you  directly,  Daddy." 

While  his  host  was  busy  caring  for  his  tired  horse* 
the  big  man,  who  did  not  remove  the  saddle  from  his 
mount,  followed  the  girl  into  the  cabin.  "Can't  you 
even  tell  a  feller,  Howdy?"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  en 
tered  the  kitchen. 

"I  did  tell  you,  Howdy,"  replied  the  girl  sharply, 
stirring  up  the  fire. 

"  'Pears  like  you  might  o'  been  a  grain  warmer 
about  hit,"  growled  the  other,  seating  himself  where 
he  could  watch  her.  "If  I'd  been  Young  Matt  er  that 
skinny  Ollie  Stewart,  you'd  a'  been  keen  enough." 

Sammy  turned  and  faced  him  with  angry  eyes; 
"Look  a  here,  Wash  Gibbs,  I  done  tol'  you  last  Thurs 
day  when  you  come  for  Daddy  that  you'd  better  let 
me  alone.  I  don't  like  you,  and  I  don't  aim  to  ever 
have  anything  to  do  with  you.  You  done  fixed  your 
self  with  me  that  time  at  the  Covt  picnic,  I'll  tell 

76 


THE   SHEPHERD   OF   THE    HILLS 

Daddy  about  that  if  you  don't  mind.  I  don't  want 
to  make  no  trouble,  but  you  just  got  to  quit  pestering 
me." 

The  big  fellow  sneered.  "I  'lowed  you  might 
change  your  mind  'bout  that  some  day.  Jim  ain't 
goin'  t'  say  nothin'  t'  me,  an'  if  he  did,  words  don't 
break  no  bones.  I'm  a  heap  th'  best  man  in  this  neck 
o'  th'  woods,  an'  your  Paw  knows  hit.  You  know 
hit,  too." 

Under  his  look,  the  blood  rushed  to  the  girl's  face 
in  a  burning  blush.  In  spite  of  her  anger  she  drop 
ped  her  eyes,  and  without  attempting  a  reply,  turned 
to  her  work. 

A  moment  later,  Mr.  Lane  entered  the  room ;  a  sin 
gle  glance  at  his  daughter's  face,  a  quick  look  at  Wash 
Gibbs,  as  the  bully  sat  following  with  wolfish  eyes 
every  movement  of  the  girl,  and  Jim  stepped  quietly 
in  front  of  his  guest.  At  the  same  moment,  Sammy 
left  the  house  for  a  bucket  of  water,  and  Wash  turned 
toward  his  host  with  a  start  to  find  the  dark  faced 
man  gazing  at  him  with  a  look  that  few  men  could 
face  with  composure.  Without  a  word,  Jim's  right 
hand  crept  stealthily  inside  his  hickory  shirt,  where 
a  button  was  missing. 

For  a  moment  Gibbs  tried  to  return  the  look.  He 
failed.  Something  he  read  in  the  dark  face  before 
him — some  meaning  light  in  those  black  eyes — made 
him  tremble  and  he  felt,  rather  than  saw,  Jim's  hand 

77 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

resting  quietly  now  inside  the  hickory  shirt  near  his 
left  arm  pit.  The  big  man's  face  went  white  beneath 
the  tan,  his  eyes  wavered  and  shifted,  he  hung  his 
head  and  shuffled  his  feet  uneasily,  like  an  over 

*  nvn  school-boy   brought   sharply   to   task  by   the 

IK  , 
master. 

Then  Jim,  his  hand  still  inside  his  shirt,  drawled 
softly,  but  with  a  queer  metallic  ring  in  his  voice, 
"Do  you  reckon  it's  going  t'  storm  again?" 

At  the  commonplace  question,  the  bully  drew  a 
long  breath  and  looked  around.  "We  might  have  a 
spell  o'  weather,"  he  muttered;  "but  I  don't  guess 
it'll  be  t'night." 

Then  Sammy  returned  and  they  had  supper- 
Next  to  his  daughter,  Jim  Lane  loved  his  violin, 
and  with  good  reason,  for  the  instrument  had  once 
belonged    to    his    great-grandfather,    who,    tradition 
says,  was  a  musician  of  no  mean  ability. 

Preachin'  Bill  "  'lowed  there  was  a  heap  o'  differ 
ence  between  a  playin'  a  violin  an'  jest  fiddlin'.  You 
wouldn't  know  some  fellers  was  a  makin'  music,  if 
you  didn't  see  'em  a  pattin'  their  foot;  but  hit  ain't 
that  a  way  with  Jim  Lane.  He  sure  do  make  music, 
real  music."  As  no  one  ever  questioned  Bill's  judg 
ment,  it  is  safe  to  conclude  that  Mr.  Lane  inherited 
something  of  his  great-grandfather's  ability,  along 
with  his  treasured  instrument. 
When  supper  was  over,  and  Wash  Gibbs  had  gone 

78 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

on  his  way,  Jim  took  the  violin  from  its  peg  above 
the  fireplace,  and,  tucking  it  lovingly  under  his  chin, 
gave  himself  up  to  his  favorite  pastime,  while  Sammy 
moved  busily  about  the  cabin,  putting  things  right  for 
the  night. 

When  her  evening  tasks  were  finished,  the  girl 
came  and  stood  before  her  father.  At  once  the  music 
ceased  and  the  violin  was  laid  carefully  aside. 
Sammy  seated  herself  on  her  father's  knee. 

"Law/  child,  but  you're  sure  growin'  up,"  said 
Jim,  with  a  mock  groan  at  her  weight. 

"Yes,  Daddy,  I  reckon  I'm  about  growed;  I'll  be 
nineteen  come  Christmas." 

"O  shucks!"  ejaculated  the  man.  "It  wasn't 
more'n  last  week  that  you  was  washin'  doll  clothes, 
down  by  the  spring." 

The  young  woman  laughed.  "I  didn't  wash  no  doll 
clothes  last  week,"  she  said.  Then  her  voice  changed, 
and  that  wide,  questioning  look,  the  look  that  made 
one  think  so  of  her  father,  came  into  her  eyes. 
"There's  something  I  want  to  ask  you,  Daddy  Jim. 
You — you  know — Ollie's  goin'  away,  an' — an' — an'  I 
was  thinkin'  about  it  all  day  yesterday,  an',  Daddy, 
why  ain't  we  got  no  folks  ?" 

Mr.  Lane  stirred  uneasily.  Sammy  continued, 
"There's  the  Matthews,  they've  got  kin  back  in  Illi 
nois;  Mandy  Eord's  got  uncles  and  aunts  over  on 
Long  Creek ;  Jed  Holland's  got  a  grandad  and  mam, 

79 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  even  Preaehin'  Bill  talks  about  a  pack  o'  kin  folks 
over  in  Arkansaw.  Why  ain't  we  got  no  folks, 
Daddy?" 

The  man  gazed  long  and  thoughtfully  at  the  fresh 
young  face  of  his  child;  and  the  black  eyes  looked 
into  the  brown  eyes  keenly,  as  he  answered  her  ques 
tion  with  another  question,  "Do  you  reckon  you  love 
him  right  smart,  honey?  Are  you  sure,  dead  sure 
you  ain't  thinkin'  of  what  he's  got  'stead  of  what  he 
is  ?  I  know  it'll  be  mighty  nice  for  you  to  be  one  of 
the  fine  folks  and  they're  big  reasons  why  you  ought, 
but  it's  goin'  to  take  a  mighty  good  man  to  match 
you — a  mighty  good  man.  And  it's  the  man  you've 
got  to  live  with,  not  his  money." 

"Ollie's  good,  Daddy,"  she  returned  in  a  low  voice, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  replied  Jim.  "He  wouldn't  do 
nobody  no  harm;  he's  good  enough  that  way,  and  I 
ain't  a  f aultin'  him.  But  you  ought  to  have  a  man, 
a  sure  enough  good  man." 

"But  tell  me,  Daddy,  why  ain't  we  got  no  folks  ?" 

The  faintest  glimmer  of  a  smile  came  into  the 
dark  face ;  "You're  sure  growed  up,  girl ;  you're  sure 
growed  up,  girl;  you  sure  are.  An'  I  reckon  you 
might  as  well  know."  Then  he  told  her. 


80 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SAMMY  LANE'S  FOLKS. 

»T  began  on  a  big  southern  plantation* 
where  there  were  several  brothers  and 
sisters,  with  a  gentleman  father  of  no 
little  pride,  and  a  lady  mother  of  equal 
pride  and  great  beauty. 

With  much  care  for  detail,  Jim  drew  a  picture  of 
the  big  mansion  with  its  wide  lawns,  flower  gardens 
and  tree  bordered  walks;  with  its  wealth  of  culture, 
its  servants,  and  distinguished  guests;  for,  said  he, 
"When  you  get  to  be  a  fine  lady,  you  ought  to  know 
that  you  got  as  good  blood  as  the  best  of  the  thorough 
breds."  And  Sammy,  interrupting  his  speech  with  £ 
kiss,  bade  him  go  on  with  his  story. 

Then  he  told  how  the  one  black  sheep  of  that  proud 
southern  flock  had  been  cast  forth  from  the  beautiful 
home  while  still  hardly  grown;  and  how,  with  his 
horse,  gun  and  violin,  the  wanderer  had  come  into  the 
heart  of  the  Ozark  wilderness,  when  the  print  of 
moccasin  feet  was  still  warm  on  the  Old  Trail.  Jim 
sketched  broadly  here,  and  for  some  reason  did  not 
fully  explain  the  cause  of  his  banishment ;  neither  did 
he  comment  in  any  way  upon  its  justice  or  injustice. 

81 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Time  passed,  and  a  strong,  clear-eyed,  clean 
limbed,  deep-bosomed  mountain  lass,  with  all  the 
mastering  passion  of  her  kind,  mated  the  free,  half 
wild,  young  hunter ;  and  they  settled  in  the  cabin  by 
the  spring  on  the  southern  slope  of  Dewey.  Then  the 
little  one  came,  and  in  her  veins  there  was  mingled 
the  blue  blood  of  the  proud  southerners  and  the  warm 
red  life  of  her  wilderness  mother. 

Again  Jim's  story  grew  rich  in  detail.  Holding 
his  daughter  at  arm's  length,  and  looking  at  her 
through  half-closed  eyes,  he  said,  "You're  like  her, 
honey ;  you're  mighty  like  her ;  same  eyes,  same  hair, 
same  mouth,  same  build,  same  way  of  movin',  strong, 
but  smooth  and  free  like.  She  could  run  clean  to  the 
top  of  Dewey,  or  sit  a  horse  all  day.  Do  you  ever  get 
tired,  girl  ?" 

Sammy  laughed,  and  shook  her  head;  "I've  run 
from  here  to  the  signal  tree,  lots  of  times,  Daddy." 

"You're  like  the  old  folks,  too,"  mused  Jim ;  "like 
them  in  what  you  think  and  say." 

"Tell  me  more,"  said  the  girl.  "Seems  like  I  re 
member  bein'  in  a  big  wagon,  and  there  was  a  woman 
there  too;  was  she  my  mother?"  fc 

Jim  nodded,  and  unconsciously  lowered  his  voice, 
as  he  said,  "It  was  in  the  old  Bald  Knobber  time. 
Things  happened  in  them  days,  honey.  Many's  the 
night  I've  seen  the  top  of  old  Dewey  yonder  black 
with  men.  It  was  when  things  was  broke  up,  that — 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF    THE   HILLS 

that  your  mother  and  me  thought  we  could  do  better 
in  Texas;  so  we  went."  Jim  was  again  sketching 
broadly. 

"Your  mother  left  us  there,  girl.  Seemed  like  she 
couldn't  stand  it,  bein'  away  from  the  hills  or  some- 
thin',  and  she  just  give  up.  I  never  did  rightly 
know  how  it  was.  We  buried  her  out  there,  way  out 
on  the  big  plains." 

"I  remember  her  a  little,"  whispered  Sammy. 

Jim  continued;  "Then  after  a  time  you  and  me 
come  back  to  the  old  place.  Your  mother  named  you 
Samantha,  girl,  but  bein'  as  there  wasn't  no  boy,  I 
always  called  you  Sammy.  It  seems  right  enough 
that  way  now,  for  you've  sure  been  more'n  a  son  to 
me  since  we've  been  alone ;  and  that's  one  reason  why 
I  learned  you  to  ride  and  shoot  with  the  best  of  them. 

"There's  them  that  says  I  ain't  done  right  by  you, 
bringing  you  up  without  any  woman  about  the  place ; 
and  I  don't  know  as  I  have,  but  somehow  I  couldn't 
never  think  of  no  woman  as  I  ought,  after  living 
with  your  mother.  And  then  there  was  Aunt  Mollie 
to  learn  you  how  to  cook  and  do  things  about  the 
house.  I  counted  a  good  bit,  too,  on  the  old  stock. 
and  it  sure  showed  up  right.  You're  like  the  old 
folks,  girl,  in  the  way  you  think,  but  you're  like 
your  mother  in  the  way  you  look. 

Sammy's  arms  went  around  her  father's  neck, 
"You're  a  good  man,  Daddy  Jim ;  the  best  Daddy  a 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

girl  ever  had;  and  if  I  ain't  all  bad,  it's  on  account 
of  you."  There  was  a  queer  look  on  the  man's  dark 
face.  He  had  sketched  some  parts  of  his  tale  with 
a  broad  hand,  indeed. 

The  girl  raised  her  head  again;  "But,  Daddy,  I 
wish  you'd  do  something  for  me.  I — I  don't  like 
Wash  Gibbs  to  be  a  comin'  here.  I  wish  you'd  quit 
ridin'  with  him,  Daddy  I'm — I'm  afeared  of  him; 
he  looks  at  me  so.  He's  a  sure  bad  one — I  know  he 
is,  Daddy." 

Jim  laughed  and  again  there  was  that  odd  metallic 
note  in  his  voice;  "I've  knowed  him  a  long  time, 
honey.  Me  and  his  daddy  was — was  together  when 
he  died ;  and  you  used  to  sit  on  Wash's  knee  when  you 
was  a  little  tad.  Not  that  he's  so  mighty  much  older 
than  you,  but  he  was  a  man's  size  at  fifteen.  You 
don't  understand,  girl,  but  I've  got  to  go  with  him 
sometimes.  But  don't  you  fret;  Wash  Gibbs  ain't 
goin'  to  hurt  me,  and  he  won't  come  here  more'n  I 
can  help,  either."  Then  he  changed  the  subject  ab 
ruptly.  "Tell  me  what  you've  been  doin'  while  I  was 
away." 

Sammy  told  of  her  visit  to  their  friends  at  the 
Matthews  place,  and  of  the  stranger  who  had  come 
into  the  neighborhood.  As  the  girl  talked,  her  father 
questioned  her  carefully,  and  several  times  the  metal 
lic  note  crept  into  his  soft,  drawling  speech,  while  into 
his  eyes  came  that  peculiar,  searching  look,  as  if  he 

84 


THE   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    HILLS 

would  draw  from  his  daughter  even  more  than  she 
knew  of  the  incident.  Once  he  rose,  and,  going  to 
the  door,  stood  looking  out  into  the  night. 

Sammy  finished  with  her  answer  to  Mandy  Ford*' 
opinion  of  the  stranger ;  "You  don't  reckon  a  revenue 
would  ask  a  blessin',  do  you  Daddy?  Seems  like  he 
just  naturally  wouldn't  dast;  God  would  make  the 
victuals  stick  in  his  throat  and  choke  him  sure." 

Jim  laughed,  as  he  replied,  "I  don't  know,  girl; 
I  never  heard  of  a  revenue's  doin'  such.  But  a  feller 
can't  tell." 

When  Sammy  left  him  to  retire  for  the  night,  her 
father  picked  up  the  violin  again,  and  placed  it  be 
neath  his  chin  as  if  to  play ;  but  he  did  not  touch  the 
strings,  and  soon  hung  the  instrument  in  its  place 
above  the  mantel.  Then,  going  to  the  doonvay,  he 
lighted  his  pipe,  and,  for  a  full  hour,  sat,  looking  up 
the  Old  Trail  toward  the  Matthews  place,  his  right 
hand  thrust  into  the  bosom  of  his  hickory  shirt, 
where  the  button  was  missing. 


CHAPTER  X, 
FEAT  OF  STRENGTH  AND  A  CHALLENGE. 

HAT  the  club  is  to  the  city  man,  and  the 
general  store  or  postoffice  to  the  citizens 
of  the  country  village,  the  mill  is  to  the 
native  of  the  backwoods. 
Made  to  saw  the  little  rough  lumber  he  needs  in 
his  primitive  building,  or  to  grind  his  corn  into  the 
rough  meal,  that  is  his  staff  of  life,  the  mill  does 
more  for  the  settler  than  this;  it  brings  together  the 
scattered  population,  it  is  the  new?  center,  the  heart 
of  the  social  life,  and  the  hub  of  the  industrial  wheel 
On  grinding  day,  the  Ozark  mountaineer  goes  to 
mill  on  horse-back,  his  grist  in  a  sack  behind  the 
saddle,  or,  indeed,  taking  place  of  the  saddle  itselt. 
The  rule  is,  first  come,  first  served.  So,  while  wait 
ing  his  turn,  or  waiting  for  a  neighbor  who  will  ride 
in  the  same  direction,  the  woodsman  has  time  to  con 
tribute  his  share  to  the  gossip  of  the  country  side,  or 
to  take  part  in  the  discussions  that  are  of  more  or  less 
vital  interest.  When  the  talk  runs  slow,  there  are 
games ;  pitching  horse  shoes,  borrowed  from  the 
blacksmith  shop — there  is  always  a  blacksmith  shop 
near  by;  running  or  jumping  contests,  or  wrestling 
or  shooting  matches. 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Fall  Creek  Mill,  owned  and  operated  by  Mr.  Mat 
thews  and  his  son,  was  located  on  Fall  Creek  in  a 
deep,  narrow  valley,  about  a  mile  from  their  home. 

A  little  old  threshing  engine,  one  of  the  very  first 
to  take  the  place  of  the  horse  power,  and  itself  in  turn 
already  pushed  to  the  wall  by  improved  competitors, 
rolled  the  saw  or  the  burr.  This  engine,  which  had 
been  rescued  by  Mr.  Matthews  from  the  scrap-pile  of 
a  Springfield  machine  shop,  was  accepted  as  evidence 
beyond  question  of  the  superior  intelligence  and 
genius  of  the  Matthews  family.  In  fact,  Fall  Creek 
Mill  gave  the  whole  Mutton  Hollow  neighborhood 
such  a  tone  of  up-to-date  enterprise,  that  folks  from 
the  Bend,  or  the  mouth  of  the  James,  looked  upon  the 
Mutton  Hollow  people  with  no  little  envy  and  awe, 
not  to  say  even  jealousy. 

The  settlers  came  to  the  Matthews  mill  from  far 
up  the  creek,  crossing  and  recrossing  the  little 
stream ;  from  Iron  Spring  and  from  Gardner,  beyond 
Sand  Ridge,  following  faint,  twisting  bridle  paths 
through  the  forest;  from  the  other  side  of  Dewey 
Bald,  along  the  Old  Trail ;  from  the  Cove  and  from 
the  Postoffice  at  the  Forks,  down  the  wagon  road, 
through  the  pinery;  and  from  Wolf  Ridge  and  the 
head  of  Indian  Creek  beyond,  climbing  the  rough 
mountains.  Even  from  the  river  bottoms  they  came, 
yellow  and  shaking  with  ague,  to  swap  tobacco  and 
yarns,  and  to  watch  with  never  failing  interest  the 

8T 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

crazy  old  engine,  as  Young  Matt  patted,  and  coaxed, 
and  flattered  her  into  doing  his  will. 

They  began  coming  early  that  grinding  day,  two 
weeks  after  Mr.  Howitt  had  been  installed  at  the 
ranch.  But  the  young  engineer  was  ready,  with  a 
good  head  of  steam  in  the  old  patched  boiler,  and  the 
smoke  was  rising  from  the  rusty  stack,  in  a  long, 
twisting  line,  above  the  motionless  tree  tops. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  Young  Matt ;  great  because 
he  knew  that  Sammy  Lane  would  be  coming  to  mill ; 
he  would  see  her  and  talk  with  her ;  perhaps  if  he  were 
quick  enough,  he  might  even  lift  her  from  the  brown 
pony. 

It  was  a  great  day,  too,  because  Ollie  Stewart 
would  be  saying  good-by,  and  before  tomorrow  would 
be  on  his  way  out  of  the  hills.  ISTot  that  it  mattered 
whether  Ollie  went  or  not.  It  was  settled  that 
Sammy  was  going  to  marry  young  Stewart ;  that  was 
what  mattered.  And  Young  Matt  had  given  her  up. 
And,  as  he  had  told  his  father  in  the  barn  that  day, 
it  was  alright.  But  still — still  it  was  a  great  day, 
because  Ollie  would  be  saying  good-by. 

It  was  a  great  day  in  Young  Matt's  life,  too,  be 
cause  on  that  day  he  would  issue  his  challenge  to  the 
acknowledged  champion  of  the  country-side,  Wash 
Gibbs.  But  Young  Matt  did  not  know  this  until 
afterwards,  for  it  all  came  about  in  a  very  unexpected 
way. 

88 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  company  had  been  discussing  the  new  arrival 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  speculating  as  to  the  prob 
able  length  of  Mr.  Howitt's  stay  at  the  ranch,  and 
while  Young  Matt  was  in  the  burr-house  with  his 
father,  they  had  gone  over  yet  again  the  familiar 
incidents  of  the  ghost  story ;  how  aBudd  Wilson  seen 
her  as  close  as  from  here  t'  th7  shop  yonder."  Ho^ 
"Joe  Gardner's  mule  had  gone  plumb  hog-wild  when 
he  tried  to  ride  past  the  oP  ruins  near  th7  ranch.7' 
And  "how  Lem  Wheeler,  while  out  hunting  that  roan 
steer  o7  hisn,  had  heard  a  moanin'  an7  a  wailin7  under 
the  bluff.77 

Upon  Young  Matthews  returning  to  his  engine,  the 
conversation  had  been  skilfully  changed  to  Ollie 
Stewart  and  his  remarkable  good  fortune.  From 
Ollie  and  his  golden  prospects,  it  was  an  easy  way  to 
Sammy  Lane  and  her  coming  marriage. 

Buck  Thompson  was  just  concluding  a  glowing 
tribute  to  the  gir!7s  beauty  of  face  and  form  when 
Young  Matt  reached  for  an  axe  lying  near  the 
speaker.  Said  Buck,  "Preachin7  Bill  7lowed  t7other 
day  hit  didn7t  make  no  difference  how  much  money 
th7  ol7  man  left  Ollie  he7d  be  a  poor  sort  of  a  man 
anyhow;  an7  that  there7s  a  heap  better  men  than  him 
right  here  in  th7  hills  that  Sammy  could  a7  had  fer  th7 
askin7.77 

"How  7bout  that,  Matt  ?77  called  a  young  fellow 
from  the  river. 

89 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  big  man's  face  flushed  at  the  general  laugh 
which  followed,  and  he  answered  hotly,  as  he  swung 
his  axe,  "You'd  better  ask  Wash  Gibbs;  I  hear  he 
says  he's  the  best  man  in  these  woods. " 

"I  reckin  as  how  Wash  can  back  his  jedgment 
there,"  said  Joe. 

"Wash  is  a  sure  good  man,"  remarked  Buck,  "but 
there's  another  not  so  mighty  far  away  that'll  pretty 
nigh  hold  him  level."  He  looked  significantly  to 
where  Young  Matt  was  making  the  big  chips  fly, 

"Huh,"  grunted  Joe.  "I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  that 
there  man,  Gibbs,  is  powerful;  yes,  sir,  he  sure  is. 
Tell  you  what  I  seed  him  do."  Joe  pulled  a  twist  of 
tobacco  from  his  hip  pocket,  and  settled  down  upon 
his  heels,  his  back  against  a  post.  "Wash  an'  me  was 
a  goin'  to  th'  settlement  last  fall,  an'  jest  this  side 
th'  camp  house,  on  Wilderness  Road,  we  struck  a 
threshin'  crew  stuck  in  th'  mud  with  their  engine. 
Had  a  break  down  o'  some  kind.  Somethin'  th' 
matter  with  th'  hind  wheel.  An'  jest  as  Wash  an'  me 
drove  up,  th'  boss  of  th'  outfit  was  a  tellin'  'em  t'  cut 
a  big  pole  for  a  pry  t'  lift  th'  hind  ex,  so's  they  could 
block  it  up,  an'  fix  th'  wheel. 

"Wash  he  looked  at  'em  a  minute  an'  then  says, 
says  he,  'Hold  on,  boys ;  you  don't  need  ary  pole.' 

"  'What  do  you  know  'bout  an  engine,  you  darned 
hill  billy,'  says  th'  old  man,  kind  o'  short. 

"  'Don't  know  nothin'  'bout  an  engine,  you  prairie 

90 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

hopper/  says  Wash,  'but  I  know  you  don't  need  no 
pole  t'  lift  that  thing.' 

"  'How'd  you  lift  it  then  ?'  says  t'other. 

"  'Why  I'd  jest  catch  holt  an'  lift,'  says  Wash. 

"The  gang  like  t'  bust  theirselves  laughin'.  'Why 
you  blame  fool,'  says  the  boss;  'do  you  know  what 
that  engine'll  weigh?' 

"  'Don't  care  a  cuss  what  she'll  weigh,'  says  Wash. 
'She  ain't  planted  there,  is  she?'  An'  with  that  he 
climbs  down  from  th'  wagon,  an'  dad  burn  me  if  he 
didn't  take  holt  o'  that  hind  ex  an'  lift  one  whole 
side  o'  that  there  engine  clean  off  th'  ground.  Them 
fellers  jest  stood  'round  an'  looked  at  him  t'  beat  th' 
stir.  'Well,'  says  Wash,  still  a  keepin'  his  holt ;  'slide 
>  block  under  her  an'  I'll  mosey  along!' 

"That  boss  didn't  say  a  word  'till  he'd  got  a  bottle 
from  a  box  on  th'  wagon  an'  handed  hit  t'  Wash; 
then  he  says  kind  o'  scared  like,  'Where  in  hell  are 
you  from,  Mister  ?' 

"  'Oh,  I'm  jest  a  kid  from  over  on  Roark,'  says 
Wash,  handin'  th'  Settle  t'  me.  'You  ought  t'  see 
some  o'  th'  men  i  *  my  neighborhood!'  Then  we 
went  on." 

When  the  speaker  had  finished,  there  was  quiet 
for  a  little;  then  the  young  man  from  the  river 
drawled,  "How  much  did  you  say  that  there  engine  'd 
weigh.  Joe  ?" 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this,  which  the  ad- 

91 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

mirer  of  Gibbs  took  good  naturedly;  "Don't  know 
what  she'd  weigh  but  she  was  'bout  the  size  o'  that 
one  there,"  he  answered. 

With  one  accord  everyone  turned  to  inspect  the  mill 
engine.  "Pretty  good  lift,  Joe.  Let's  you  an'  me 
take  a  pull  at  her,  Budd,"  remarked  Lem  Wheeler. 

The  two  men  lifted  and  strained  at  the  wheel. 
Then  another  joined  them,  and,  amid  the  laughter 
and  good  natured  raillery  of  the  crowd,  the  three 
tried  in  vain  to  lift  one  of  the  wheels;  while  Mr. 
Matthews,  seeing  some  unusual  movement,  came  into 
the  shed  and  stood  with  his  son,  an  amused  witness 
of  their  efforts. 

"Sure  this  engine  ain't  bigger'n  t'other,  Joe?" 
asked  one  of  the  group. 

"Don't  believe  she  weighs  a  pound  more,"  replied 
the  mountaineer  with  conviction.  "I  tell  you,  gentle 
men,  that  man  Gibbs  is  a  wonder,  he  sure  is." 

Old  Matt  and  his  son  glanced  quickly  at  each 
other,  and  the  boy  shook  his  head  with  a  smile.  This 
little  by-play  was  lost  on  the  men  who  were  inter 
ested  in  the  efforts  of  different  ones,  in  groups  of 
three,  to  move  the  wheel.  When  they  had  at  last 
given  it  up,  the  young  man  from  the  river  drawled, 
"You're  right  sure  hit  weren't  after  th'  boss  give 
you  that  bottle  that  Wash  lifted  her,  are  you  Joe? 
Or  wasn't  hit  on  th'  way  home  from  th'  settlement  ?" 

When  the  laugh  at  this  insinuation  had  died  out, 

92 


THE    SHEPHERD    OF   THE   HILLS 

Buck   said  thoughtfully,   'Tell  you  what,  boys;   I'd 
like  t'  see  Young  Matt  try  that  lift." 

Mr.  Matthews,  who  was  just  starting  back  to  the 
burr-house,  paused  in  the  doorway.  All  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  his  son.  "Try  her,  Matt.  Show  us  what 
you  can  do/'  called  the  men  in  chorus.  But  the 
young  man  shook  his  head,  and  found  something  that 
needed  his  immediate  attention. 

All  that  morning  at  intervals  the  mountaineers 
urged  the  big  fellow  to  attempt  the  feat,  but  he 
always  put  them  off  with  some  evasive  reply,  or  was 
too  busy  to  gratify  them. 

But  after  dinner,  while  the  men  were  pitching 
horse  shoes  in  front  of  the  blacksmith  shop,  Buck 
Thompson  approached  the  young  engineer  alone. 
"Look  a  here,  Matt,"  he  said,  "why  don't  you  try  that 
lift  ?  Durned  me  if  I  don't  believe  you'd  fetch  her." 

The  young  giant  looked  around;  "I  know  I  can, 
Buck;  I  lifted  her  yesterday  while  Dad  fixed  the 
blockin' ;  I  always  do  it  that  way." 

Buck  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "Well,  why  in 
thunder  don't  you  show  th'  boys,  then?"  he  burst 
forth  at  last. 

*'  'Cause  if  I  do  Wash  Gibbs'll  hear  of  it  sure,  and 
I'll  have  to  fight  him  to  settle  which  is  the  best  man." 

"Good  Lord !"  ejaculated  Buck,  with  a  groan.  "If 
you're  afraid  o'  Wash  Gibbs,  it's  th'  first  thing  I  ever 
knowed  you  t'  be  scared  o'." 

93 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Young  Matt  looked  his  friend  steadily  in  the  eyes, 
as  he  replied;  "I  ain't  afraid  of  Wash  Gibbs;  I'm 
afraid  of  myself.  Mr.  Howitt  says,  'TTo  man  needn't 
be  afraid  of  nobody  but  himself.'  I've  been  a  thinkin* 
lately,  Buck,  an'  I  see  some  things  that  I  never  see 
before.  I  figure  it  that  if  I  fight  Wash  Gibbs  or 
anybody  else  just  to  see  which  is  th'  best  man,  I  ain't 
no  better'n  he  is.  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  whip  him 
some  day,  alright,  an'  I  ain't  a  carin'  much  how  soon 
it  comes;  but  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  hurt  nobody  for 
nothin'  just  because  I  can." 

Buck  made  no  reply  to  this.  Such  sentiment  was 
a  little  too  much  for  his  primitive  notions.  He  went 
back  to  the  men  by  the  blacksmith  shop. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  until  the  players  left 
their  game,  to  gather  once  more  about  the  engine. 
Lena  Wheeler  approached  Young  Matt  with  a  serious 
air;  "Look  a  here,"  he  said;  "we  all  want  t'  see  you 
try  that  lift." 

"I  ain't  got  no  time  for  foolin',"  replied  the  young 
man;  "Dad's  just  pushin'  to  get  done  before  dark." 

"Shucks!"  retorted  the  other;  "Hit  won't  take  a 
minute  t'  try.  Jest  catch  hold  an'  show  us  what  you 
can  do." 

"What  are  you  all  so  keen  about  my  liftin'  for,  any 
how?"  demanded  the  big  fellow,  suspiciously.  "I 
ain't  never  set  up  as  the  strong  man  of  this  country." 

"Well,  you  see  it's  this  way;  Buck  done  bet  me 

94 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  mule  colt  agin  mine  that  you  could  lift  her;  an' 
we  want  you  to  settle  th'  bet!"  exclaimed  Lem. 

Young  Matthews  shot  a  glance  at  the  mountaineer, 
who  grinned  joyously.  "Yep,"  said  Buck,  "that's 
how  it  is ;  I'm  a  backin'  you.  Don't  want  you  t'  hurt 
yourself  for  me,  but  I  sure  do  need  that  colt  o'  Lem's ; 
hit's  a  dead  match  for  mine." 

The  giant  looked  at  his  friend  a  moment  in  silence, 
then  burst  into  a  laugh  of  appreciation  at  Buck's 
hint.  "Seein'  as  how  you're  backin'  me,  Buck,  I'll 
have  t'  get  you  that  mule  if  I  can." 

He  shut  off  steam,  and,  as  the  engine  came  to  a 
stop,  stooped,  and,  with  apparent  ease,  lifted  the  rear 
wheel  a  full  four  inches  from  the  ground. 

Loud  exclamations  of  admiration  came  from  the 
little  group  of  men  in  the  shed.  Lem  turned  with  a 
long  face,  "Them  colts  '11  make  a  fine  team,  Buck;" 
he  said. 

"You  bet;  come  over  an'  hep  me  break  'em,"  re 
plied  Buck,  with  another  grin  of  delight. 

"Wait  'till  Wash  Gibbs  hears  'bout  this,  an'  he'll 
sure  be  for  breakin'  Young  Matt,"  put  in  another. 

"Better  get  your  fightin'  clothes  on,  Matt ;  Wash'll 
never  rest  easy  until  you've  done  showed  him." 
These  and  similar  remarks  revealed  the  general  view 
of  the  situation. 

While  the  men  were  discussing  the  matter,  a  thin, 
high-pitched  voice  from  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  broke 

95 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

in,  "That  there's  a  good  lift  alright,  but  hit  ain't 
nothin'  t'  what  I  seed  when  I  was  t'  th'  circus  in  th' 
city." 

Young  Matt,  who  had  started  the  engine  again, 
turned  quickly..  Ollie  Stewart  was  sitting  on  a  horse 
near  by,  and  at  his  side,  on  the  brown  pony,  was  Miss 
Sammy  Lane.  They  had  evidently  ridden  up  just 
in  time  to  witness  the  exhibition  of  the  giant's 
strength. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

OLLIE  STEWART'S  GOOD-BY. 

[ESIDE  the  splendidly  developed  young 
woman,    Ollie   Stewart   appeared   but   a 
weakling.     His  shoulders  were  too  nar 
row  and  he  stooped ;  his  limbs  were  thin ; 
his  hair  black  and  straight;  and  his  eyes  dull. 

As  Young  Matt  stepped  forward,  Ollie  dismounted 
quickly,  but  the  big  fellow  was  first  at  the  brown 
pony's  side.  Sammy's  eyes  shone  with  admiration, 
and,  as  the  strong  man  felt  their  light,  he  was  not  at 
all  sorry  that  he  had  won  the  mule  colt  for  Buck. 

*'Xo,"  she  said,  declining  his  offered  assistance; 
she  did  not  wish  to  get  down ;  they  were  going  to  the 
postoffice  and  would  call  for  the  meal  on  their  way 
home. 

Young  Matt  lifted  the  sack  of  corn  from  Brownie's  • 
back  and  carried  it  into  the  shed.  When  he  returned 
to  the  group,  Ollie  was  saying  in  his  thin  voice,  "In 
th'  circus  I  seen  in  the  city  there  was  a  feller  that 
lifted  a  man,  big  as  Jed  here,  clean  above  his  head 
with  one  hand." 

Buck  turned  to  his  big  friend.  His  look  was  met 
by  a  grim  smile  that  just  touched  the  corners  of  the 

97 


-~~   5--i-?~-ZKD  OF  THE  KILLS 


here  was  a  gleam  in  the  bine  eves 
betrayed  the  spirit  within.     The  lean  moun- 
again  toned  to  the  company,  while  the  boy 
at  Sammy.    The  gi^l  was  watching  him  «MJ 

tWO 


"SfcncfaP  said  Bock;  "Matt  oonld  do  that  easy/* 
it,  Matt."    «Tiy  Jed  here."    "Try  hit  once," 
called  the  chorus. 

ITiis  time  tbe  big  feflow  needed  no  uiging.    With 

which  OQie  himself  had  presented.  Without  a  word, 
bnft  with  a  qnkk  tightening  of  the  lips,  he  stepped 
nd  caught  Jed  by  Ac  belt  with  his  right 


v  a  abort 

step  forward,  a'onjck  upward  swing,  and  the  g»*"t 
held  a  mam  in  each  band  at  foil  arm's  length  above  his 
bead.  Amid  the  shoote  of  the  crowd,  stffl  holding  the 
mn,  be  walked  deliberately  to  the  M«"i*""tl.  ^iop 
and  badk;  then  lowing  them  easily  to  their  feet, 


Ollie  and  fTiaaaij  rode  away  together,  np  the  green 
the  little  company  in  the  mffl  shed 
As  the  finely  formed  joong 

tall  moQntaineer;  from  Ac  other  aide  of  Compton 

98 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Ridge,  remarked,  "I  done  heard  Preachin'  Bill  say 
t'other  day,  that  'mighty  nigh  all  this  here  gee-hawin', 
balkin',  and  kickin'  'mongst  th'  married  folks  comes 
'cause  th?  teams  ain't  matched  up  right.'  Bill  he 
'lowed  God  'Imighty'd  fixed  hit  somehow  so  th'  birds 
an'  varmints  don't  make  no  mistake,  but  left  hit 
plumb  easy  for  men  an'  women  t'  make  durned  fools 
o'  theirselves." 

Everybody  grinned  in  appreciation,  and  another 
spoke  up;  "According  t'  that,  I'll  bet  four  bits  if 
them  two  yonder  ever  do  get  into  double  harness, 
there'll  be  pieces  o'  th'  outfit  strung  from  th'  par 
son's  clean  t'  th'  buryin'  ground." 

When  the  laughter  had  subsided,  Buck  turned  to 
see  Young  Matt  standing  just  outside  the  shed,  osten 
sibly  doing  something  with  the  belt  that  led  to  the 
burr,  but  in  reality  looking  up  the  creek. 

"Law!"  ejaculated  Buck,  under  his  breath;  "what 
a  team  they'd  make!" 

"Who  ?"  said  Lem,  who  was  standing  near  by. 

"Them  mule  colts,"  returned  Buck  with  a  grin. 

"They  sure  will,  Buck.  There  ain't  two  better  in 
the  country ;  they're  a  dead  match.  I'll  come  over  an' 
hep  you  break  'em  when  they're  big  'nough/3  And 
then  he  wondered  why  Buck  swore  with  such  evident 
delight. 

One  by  one  the  natives  received  their  meal,  and, 
singly,  or  in  groups  of  two  or  three,  were  swa)Jowed 

99 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

up  by  the  great  forest.  Already  the  little  valley  was 
in  the  shadow  of  the  mountain,  though  the  sun  still 
shone  brightly  on  the  tree  tops  higher  up,  when  Ollie 
and  Sammy  returned  from  the  Forks.  Mr.  Matthews 
had  climbed  the  hill  when  the  last  grist  was  ground, 
leaving  his  son  to  cool  down  the  engine  and  put  things 
right  about  the  mill. 

"Come  on,  Matt,"  said  Ollie,  as  the  big  fellow 
brought  out  the  meal;  "It's  time  you  was  a  goin' 
home." 

The  young  giant  hung  back,  saying,  "You  folks 
better  go  on  ahead.  I'll  get  home  alright." 

"Didn't  think  nothin'  would  get  you,"  laughed 
Ollie.  "Come  on,  you  might  as  well  go  'long  with  us." 

The  other  muttered  something  about  being  in  the 
way,  and  started  back  into  the  shed. 

"Hurry  up,"  called  Sammy,  "we're  waitin'." 

After  this  there  was  nothing  else  for  the  young 
man  to  do  but  join  them.  And  the  three  were  soon 
making  their  way  up  the  steep  mountain  road  to 
gether. 

For  a  time  they  talked  of  commonplace  things, 
then  Young  Matt  opened  the  subject  that  was  on  all 
their  hearts.  "I  reckon,  Ollie,  this  is  the  last  time 
that  you'll  ever  be  a  climbin'  this  old  road."  As  he 
?poke  he  was  really  thinking  of  the  time  to  come 
when  Sammy  would  climb  the  road  for  the  last  time. 


100 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Yes,"  returned  Stewart;  "I  go  tomorrow  'fore 
sun  up." 

The  other  continued;  "It'll  sure  be  fine  for  you 
to  live  in  the  city  and  get  your  schoolin'  and  all  that. 
Us  folks  here  in  the  woods  don't  know  nothin'.  We 
ain't  go  no  chance  to  learn.  You'll  be  forgettin'  us 
all  mighty  quick,  I  reckon,  once  you  get  to  livin'  with 
your  rich  kin." 

"  'Deed,  I  won't !"  returned  Ollie  warmly. 
"Sammy  an'  me  was  a  talkin'  'bout  that  this  evenin'. 
We  aim  t'  always  come  back  t'  Mutton  Holler  onct  a 
year,  an'  be  just  like  other  folks ;  don't  we,  Sammy  ?" 

The  brown  pony,  stepping  on  a  loose  stone,  stum 
bled  toward  the  man  walking  by  his  side.  And  the 
big  fellow  put  out  his  hand  quickly  to  the  little 
horse's  neck.  For  an  instant,  the  girl's  hand  rested 
on  the  giant's  shoulder,  and  her  face  was  close  to  his. 
Then  Brownie  recovered  his  footing,  and  Young  Matt 
drew  farther  away. 

Ollie  continued ;  "We  aim  t'  have  you  come  t'  th' 
city  after  a  while.  I'm  goin'  t'  get  Uncle  Dan  t'  give 
you  a  job  in  th'  shops,  an'  you  can  get  out  o'  these 
hills  an'  be  somebody  like  we'uns." 

The  tone  was  unmistakably  patronizing.  The  big 
mountaineer  lifted  his  head  proudly,  and  turned  to 
ward  the  speaker ;  but  before  he  could  reply,  Sammy 
broke  in  eagerly,  "Law !  but  that  would  sure  be  fine, 


101 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

wouldn't  it,  Matt  ?  I'd  know  you'd  do  somethin'  big 
if  you  only  had  the  chance.  I  just  know  you  would. 
You're  so — so  kind  o'  big  every  way,"  she  laughed. 
"It's  a  plumb  shame  for  you  to  be  buried  alive  in 
these  hills.'7 

There  was  nothing  said  after  this,  until,  coming  tc 
the  top  of  the  ridge,  they  stopped.  From  here  Ollie 
and  Sammy  would  take  the  Old  Trail  to  the  girl's 
home.  Then,  with  his  eyes  on  the  vast  sweep  of  for 
est-clad  hills  and  valleys,  over  which  the  blue  haze 
was  fast  changing  to  purple  in  the  level  rays  of  the 
sun,  Young  Matt  spoke. 

"I  don't  guess  you'd  better  figure  on  that.  Some 
folks  are  made  to  live  in  the  city,  and  some  ain't.  I 
reckon  I  was  built  to  live  in  these  hills.  I  don't 
somehow  feel  like  I  could  get  along  without  them; 
and  besides,  I'd  always  be  knockin'  against  somethin' 
there."  He  laughed  grimly,  and  stretched  out  his 
huge  arms.  "I've  got  to  have  room.  Then  there's 
ths  folks  yonder."  He  turned  his  face  toward  the 
log  house,  just  showing  through  the  trees.  "You 
know  how  it  is,  me  bein'  the  only  one  left,  and  Dad 
gettin'  old.  No,  I  don't  guess  you  need  to  count  on 
me  bein'  more  than  I  am." 

Then  suddenly  he  wheeled  about  and  looked  from 
one  face  to  the  other;  and  there  was  a  faint  hint  of 
defiance  in  his  voice,  as  he  finished;  "I  got  an  idea, 
too,  that  the  backwoods  needs  men  same  as  the  cities. 

102 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

I  don't  see  how  there  ever  could  be  a  city  even,  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  men  what  cleared  the  brush.  Some 
body's  got  to  lick  Wash  Gibbs  some  day,  or  there  just 
naturally  won't  be  no  decent  livin'  in  the  neighbor 
hood  ever." 

He  held  up  his  big  hand  to  the  man  on  the  horse; 
"Good-by,  and  good  luck  to  you,  Ollie."  The  horses 
turned  down  the  Old  Trail  and  with  their  riders, 
passed  from  sight. 

That  night  Sammy  Lane  said  farewell  to  her  lover, 
and,  with  many  promises  for  the  future,  Ollie  rode 
away  to  his  cabin  home,  to  leave  the  next  morning 
for  that  world  that  lies  so  far — so  far  away  from  the 
world  of  Young  Matt  and  his  friends,  the  world  that 
is  so  easy  to  get  into  after  all,  and  so  impossible  to 
get  out  of  ever. 


103 


CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  SHEPHERD  AND  HIS  FLOCK. 

|LL  that  spring  and  summer  things  went 
smoothly  in  the  Mutton  Hollow  neigh 
borhood.  The  corn  was  ready  to  gather, 
and  nothing  had  happened  at  the  ranch 
since  Mr.  Howitt  took  charge,  while  the  man,  who 
had  appeared  so  strangely  in  their  midst,  had  made 
a  large  place  for  himself  in  the  hearts  of  the  simple 
mountaineers. 

At  first  they  were  disposed  to  regard  him  with 
some  distrust,  as  one  apart;  he  was  so  unlike  them 
selves.  But  when  he  had  changed  his  dress  for  the 
rough  garb  of  the  bailsman,  and,  meeting  them  kindly 
upon  their  own  ground,  had  entered  so  readily  into 
their  life,  the  people  by  common  consent  dropped  the 
distinguishing  title  "Mister"  for  the  more  familiar 
one  of  the  backwoods,  "Dad."  Not  that  they  lacked 
in  respect  or  courtesy;  it  was  only  their  way.  And 
the  quiet  shepherd  accepted  the  title  with  a  pleased 
smile,  seeming  to  find  in  the  change  an  honor  to  be 
received  not  lightly.  But  while  showing  such  inter 
est  in  all  that  made  up  their  world,  the  man  never 
opened  the  door  for  anyone  to  enter  his  past.  They 
knew  no  more  of  his  history  than  the  hints  he  had 

104 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

given  Mr.  Matthews  the  night  he  came  out  of  the 
mists. 

At  the  occasional  religious  meetings  in  the  school 
house  at  the  Forks,  Mr.  Howitt  was  always  present, 
an  attentive  listener  to  the  sermons  of  the  backwoods 
preacher.  And  then,  seeing  his  interest,  they  asked 
him  to  talk  to  them  one  day  when  Parson  Bigelow 
failed  to  make  his  appointment.  "He  don't  holler 
so  much  as  a  regular  parson,"  said  Uncle  Josh  Hens- 
ley,  "but  he  sure  talks  so  we'uns  can  understand." 
From  that  time  they  always  called  upon  him  at  their 
public  gatherings. 

So  the  scholar  from  the  world  beyond  the  ridges 
slipped  quietly  into  the  life  of  the  mountain  folk, 
and  took  firm  root  in  their  affections.  And  in  his  face, 
so  "Preachin'  Bill"  said,  was  the  look  of  one  who 
had  "done  fought  his  fight  to  a  finish,  an'  war  too 
dead  beat  t'  even  be  glad  it  war  all  over." 

Between  the  giant  Mr.  Matthews  and  his  shepherd, 
the  friendship,  begun  that  night,  grew  always 
stronger.  In  spite  of  the  difference  in  education  and 
training,  they  found  much  in  common.  Some  bond 
of  fellowship,  unknown  to  the  mountaineer,  at  least, 
drew  them  close,  and  the  two  men  spent  many  even 
ings  upon  the  front  porch  of  the  log  house  in  quiet 
talk,  while  the  shadows  crept  over  the  valley  below, 
and  the  light  went  from  the  sky  back  of  the  clump  of 
pines. 

105 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

From  the  first  Young  Matt  was  strongly  drawn  to 
the  stranger,  who  was  to  have  such  influence  over  his 
life,  and  Pete — Pete  said  that  "God  lived  with  Dad 
Howitt  in  Mutton  Hollow." 

Pete  somehow  knew  a  great  deal  about  God  these 
days.  A  strange  comradeship  had  come  to  be  between 
the  thoughtful  gentleman,  who  cared  for  the  sheep, 
and  the  ignorant,  sorely  afflicted,  and  nameless  back 
woods  boy.  The  two  were  always  together,  out  on 
the  hillside  and  in  the  little  glens  and  valleys,  during 
the  day  with  the  sheep,  or  at  the  ranch  in  the  Hollow, 
when  the  flock  was  safely  folded  and  the  night  slipped 
quietly  over  the  timbered  ridges.  Mr.  Howitt  had 
fixed  a  bunk  in  his  cabin  for  the  boy,  so  that  he  could 
come  and  go  at  will.  Often  the  shepherd  awoke  in 
the  morning  to  find  that  some  time  during  the  night 
his  strange  friend  had  come  in  from  his  roving. 
Again,  after  seeing  the  boy  soundly  sleeping,  the 
shepherd  would  arise  in  the  morning  to  find  the  bunk 
empty. 

Sammy  Lane,  too,  had  fallen  under  the  charm  of 
the  man  with  the  white  hair  and  poet's  face. 

Sammy  was  not  so  often  at  the  Matthews  place 
after  Ollie  had  gone  to  the  city.  The  girl  could  not 
have  told  why.  She  had  a  vague  feeling  that  it  was 
better  to  stay  away.  But  this  feeling  did  not  prevent 
her  climbing  the  Old  Trail  to  the  Lookout  on  the 
shoulder  of  Dewey,  and  she  spent  hours  at  the  big 

106 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

rock,  looking  over  the  valley  to  where  the  smoke  from 
Aunt  Mollie's  kitchen  curled  above  the  trees.  And 
sometimes,  against  the  sky,  she  could  see  a  man  and  a 
team  moving  slowly  to  and  fro  in  the  field  back  of  the 
house.  When  this  happened,  Sammy  always  turned 
quickly  away  to  where  the  far  off  line  of  hills  lay  like 
a  long,  low  cloud  against  the  sky. 

Every  week  the  girl  rode  her  brown  pony  to  the 
postoffice  at  the  Forks;  and  when  she  had  a  letter, 
things  were  different.  She  always  stopped  then  at 
the  Matthews  home. 

One  day  when  this  happened,  Dad  and  Pete  were 
on  the  ridge  above  the  Old  Trail,  just  where  the 
north  slope  of  Dewey  shades  into  the  rim  of  the 
Hollow.  The  elder  man  was  seated  on  the  ground 
in  the  shade  of  an  oak,  with  his  back  against  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  while  the  boy  lay  full  length  on  the 
soft  grass,  looking  up  into  the  green  depths  of  foliage 
where  a  tiny  brown  bird  flitted  from  bough  to 
bough.  In  his  quaint  way,  Pete  was  carrying  on  a 
conversation  with  his  little  friend  in  the  tree  top, 
translating  freely  the  while  for  his  less  gifted,  but 
deeply  interested,  companion  on  the  ground  below, 
when  Brave,  the  shepherd  dog,  lying  near,  inter 
rupted  the  talk  by  a  short  bark.  Looking  up,  they 
saw  Young  Matt  riding  along  the  summit  of  the 
ridge. 

The  young  man  paused  when  he  heard  the  dog,  and 

107 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

caught  sight  of  the  two  under  the  tree ;  then  he  came 
to  them,  and  seated  himself  on  the  grass  at  Pete's 
side.  He  spoke  no  word  of  greeting,  and  the  look  on 
his  face  was  not  good  to  see. 

Pete's  eyes  went  wide  with  fear  at  the  manner  of 
his  big  friend,  and  he  drew  back  as  if  to  run,  but 
when  Young  Matt,  throwing  himself  over  on  the 
grass,  had  hidden  his  face,  a  half  sad,  half  knowing 
look  came  into  the  lad's  delicate  features;  reaching 
forth  a  hand,  as  slim  as  a  girl's,  he  stroked  the 
shaggy,  red  brown  head,  as  he  murmured  softly, 
"Poor  Matt.  Poor  Matt.  Does  it  hurt?  Is  Matt 
hurt  ?  It'll  be  better  by-and-by." 

The  great  form  on  the  grass  stirred  impatiently. 
The  shepherd  spoke  no  word.  Pete  continued,  strok 
ing  the  big  head,  and  talking  in  low,  soothing  tones, 
as  one  would  hush  a  child,  "Pete  don't  know  what's 
a  hurtin'  Young  Matt,  but  it'll  be  alright,  some  day. 
It'll  sure  grow  over  after  awhile.  Ain't  nothing 
won't  grow  over  after  awhile;  'cause  God  he  says 


so." 


Still  the  older  man  was  silent.  Then  the  giant 
bi-rst  forth  in  curses,  and  the  shepherd  spoke,  "Don't 
do  that,  Grant.  It's  not  like  you,  lad.  You  cannot 
help  your  trouble  that  way." 

Young  Matt  turned  over  to  face  his  friend;  "I 
know  it,  Dad;"  he  growled  defiantly;  "but  I  just 
got  to  say  somethin' ;  I  ain't  meanin'  no  disrespect  to 

108 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

God  'Imighty,  and  I  reckon  He  ought  to  know  it; 
but — "  he  broke  forth  again. 

Pete  drew  back  in  alarm.  "Look  your  trouble  in 
the  face,  lad,"  said  the  shepherd;  "don't  let  it  get 
you  down  like  this." 

"Look  it  in  the  face!"  roared  the  other.  "Good 
God!  that's  just  it!  ain't  I  a  lookin'  it  in  the  face 
every  day  ?  You  don't  know  about  it,  Dad.  If  you 
did,  you — you'd  cuss  too."  He  started  in  again. 

"I  know  more  than  you  think,  Grant,"  said  the 
other,  when  the  big  fellow  had  stopped  swearing  to 
get  his  breath.  While  he  spoke,  the  shepherd  was 
looking  away  along  the  Old  Trail.  "There  comes 
your  trouble  now,"  he  added,  pointing  to  a  girl  on  a 
brown  pony,  coming  slowly  out  of  the  timber  near 
the  deer  lick.  The  young  man  made  no  reply.  Pete, 
at  sight  of  the  girl,  started  to  his  feet,  but  the  big  fel 
low  pulled  him  down  again,  and  made  the  boy  under 
stand  that  he  must  not  betray  their  position. 

When  Sammy  reached  the  sheep,  she  checked  her 
pony,  and  searched  the  hillside  with  her  eyes,  while 
her  clear  call  went  over  the  mountain,  "Oh — h — h — 
Dad!" 

Young  Matt  shook  his  head  savagely  at  his  com 
panion,  and  even  Brave  was  held  silent  by  a  low 
"Be  still"  from  his  master. 

Again  Sammy  looked  carefully  on  every  side,  but 
lying  on  the  higher  ground,  and  partly  hidden  by  the 

109 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

trees,  the  little  group  could  not  be  seen.  When  there 
was  no  answer  to  her  second  call,  the  girl  drew  a  letter 
from  her  pocket,  and,  permitting  the  pony  to  roam 
at  will,  proceeded  to  read. 

The  big  man,  looking  on,  cursed  again  beneath 
his  breath.  "It's  from  Ollie,"  he  whispered  to  his 
companions.  "She  stopped  at  the  house.  He  says 
his  uncle  will  give  me  a  job  in  the  shops,  and  that 
it'll  be  fine  for  me,  'cause  Ollie  will  be  my  boss  him 
self.  He  my  boss!  Why,  dad  burn  his  sneakin' 
little  soul,  I  could  crunch  him  with  one  hand.  I'd 
see  him  in  hell  before  I'd  take  orders  from  him.  I 
told  her  so,  too,"  he  finished  savagely. 

"And  what  did  she  say?"  asked  the  shepherd 
quietly,  his  eyes  on  the  girl  below. 

"Just  said,  kind  o'  short  like,  that  she  reckoned  I 
could.  Then  I  come  away." 

The  girl  finished  her  letter,  and,  after  another 
long  call  for  Dad,  moved  on  over  the  shoulder  of  the 
mountain.  Pete,  who  had  withdrawn  a  little  way 
from  his  companions,  was  busily  talking  in  his 
strange  manner  to  his  unseen  friends. 

Then  Young  Matt  opened  his  heart  to  the  shepherd 
and  told  him  all.  It  was  the  old,  old  story ;  and,  as 
Mr.  Howitt  listened,  dreams  that  he  had  thought 
dead  with  the  death  of  his  only  son,  stirred  again  in 
his  heart,  and  his  deep  voice  was  vibrant  with  emo- 


110 


THE  SHEPHEltD  OE  :IHE  HILLS 

tion  as  he  sought  to  comfort  the  lad  who  had  come 
to  Him. 

While  they  talked,  the  sun  dropped  until  its  lower 
edge  touched  the  top  of  the  tallest  pine  on  "Wolf 
Ridge,  and  the  long  shadows  lay  over  the  valley  be 
low.  "I'm  mighty  sorry  I  let  go  and  cuss,  Dad," 
finished  the  boy.  "But  I  keep  a  holdin'  in,  and  a 
holdin'  in,  'til  I'm  plumb  wild ;  then  something  hap 
pens  like  that  letter,  and  I  go  out  on  the  range  and 
bust.  I've  often  wished  you  knowed.  Seems  like 
your  just  knowin'  about  it  will  help  me  to  hold  on. 
I  get  scared  at  myself  sometimes,  Dad,  I  do,  honest." 

"I'm  glad,  too,  that  you  have  told  me,  Grant.  It 
means  more  to  me  than  you  can  guess.  I — I  had  a 
boy  once,  you  know.  He  was  like  you.  He  would 
have  come  to  me  this  way,  if  he  had  lived." 

The  sheep  had  begun  working  toward  the  lower 
ground.  The  shepherd  rose  to  his  feet.  "Take  them 
home,  Brave.  Come  on,  boys,  you  must  eat  with  me 
at  the  ranch,  tonight."  Then  the  three  friends,  the 
giant  mountaineer,  the  strangely  afflicted  youth,  and 
the  old  scholar  went  down  the  mountain  side  together. 
As  they  disappeared  in  the  timber  on  the  lower 
level,  the  bushes,  near  which  they  had  been  sitting, 
parted  silently,  and  a  man's  head  and  shoulders  ap 
peared  from  behind  a  big  rock.  The  man  watched 
the  strange  companions  out  of  sight.  Then  the 


111 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

bushes  swayed  together,  and  the  mountain  seemed  to 
have  swallowed  him  up. 

The  three  friends  had  just  finished  their  supper 
when  Pete  saw  Sammy  entering  the  ranch  clearing. 
Young  Matt  caught  up  his  hat.  At  the  rear  door  he 
paused.  "I've  got  to  go  now,  Dad,"  he  said  awk 
wardly.  "I  can't  see  her  any  more  today.  But  if 
you'll  let  me,  I'll  come  again  when  things  get  too 
hot." 

The  shepherd  held  out  his  hand,  "I  understand. 
Come  always,  my  boy." 

The  big  fellow,  with  Pete,  slipped  away  into  the 
timber  at  the  rear  of  the  cabin,  a  moment  before 
Sammy  appeared  at  the  open  door  in  front. 


119 


Thus  the  three  friendi  . 
together.     Page  115 


.   .  went  down  the  mountain  sid« 
The  Shepherd  of  the  Hill, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SAMMY  LANE'S  AMBITION. 

AW  sakes!"  cried  Sammy,  looking  at  the 
table.  "You  don't  use  all  them  dishes, 
do  you,  Dad  ?  You  sure  must  eat  a  lot." 
"Oh,  I  eat  enough,"  laughed  Mr. 
Howitt;  "but  it  happens  that  I  had  company  this 
evening.  Young  Matt  and  Pete  were  here  for  sup 
per."  He  brought  two  chairs  outside  the  cabin. 

"Shucks !"  exclaimed  Sammy,  as  she  seated  her 
self,  and  removed  her  sunbonnet;  "they  must've  eat 
and  run.  Wish'd  I'd  got  here  sooner.  Young  Matt 
run  away  from  me  this  afternoon.  And  1  wanted  to 
see  him  'bout  Mandy  Ford's  party  next  week.  I  done 
promised  Mandy  that  I'd  bring  him.  I  reckon  he'd 
go  with  me  if  I  asked  him." 

"There  is  not  the  least  doubt  about  that,"  observed 
the  man;  "I'm  sure  anyone  would  be  glad  for  such 
charming  company." 

The  girl  looked  up  suspiciously;  "Are  you  a 
jokin'  ?"  she  said. 

"Indeed,  I  am  not;  I  am  very  much  in  earnest." 
Then,  taking  a  cob  pipe  from  his  pocket,  he  added, 
politely,  "May  I  smoke  ?" 

113 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Hell  ?  O  law !  yes.  What  you  ask  me  for  ?"  She 
watched  him  curiously,  as  he  filled  and  lighted  the 
pipe.  "I  reckon  that's  because  you  was  raised  in  the 
city,"  she  added  slowly;  "is  that  the  way  folks  do 
there?" 

"Folks  smoke  here,  sometimes,  do  they  not?"  he 
returned  between  puffs. 

"I  don't  mean  that.  Course  they  smoke  and  chew, 
too.  And  the  women  dip  snuff,  some  of  'em.  Aunt 
Mollie  Matthews  don't,  though,  and  I  ain't  never 
goin'  to,  'cause  she  don't.  But  nobody  don't  ask 
nobody  else  if  they  can.  They  just  go  ahead.  That 
ain't  the  only  way  you're  different  from  us,  though," 
she  continued,  looking  at  Mr.  Howitt,  with  that  wide 
questioning  gaze.  "You're  different  in  a  heap  o* 
ways.  'Tain't  that  you  wear  different  clothes,  for 
you  don't,  no  more.  Nor,  'taint  that  you  act  like 
you  were  any  better'n  us.  I  don't  know  what  it  is, 
but  it's  somethin'.  Take  your  stayin'  here  in  Mut 
ton  Hollow,  now;  honest,  Dad,  ain't  you  afear'd  to 
stay  here  all  alone  at  nights  ?" 

"Afraid  ?  afraid  of  what  ?"  he  looked  at  her  curi 
ously. 

"Hants,"  said  the  girl,  lowering  her  voice ;  "down 
there."  She  pointed  toward  the  old  ruined  cabin 
under  the  bluff.  "She's  sure  been  seen  there.  What 
if  he  was  to  come,  too  ?  Don't  you  believe  in  hants  ?" 

The  shepherd's  face  was  troubled,  as  he  answeredr 

114 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  don't  know,  Sammy.  I  scarcely  know  wha/  I 
believe.  Some  marvelous  experiences  are  related  by 
apparently  reliable  authorities;  but  I  have  always 
said  that  I  could  not  accept  the  belief.  I — I  am  not 
so  sure  now.  After  all,  the  unseen  world  is  not  so 
very  far  away.  Strange  forces,  of  which  we  know 
nothing,  are  about  us  everywhere.  I  dare  not  say 
that  I  do  not  believe." 

"But  you  ain't  scared  ?" 

"Why  should  I  fear?" 

Sammy  shook  her  head.  "Ain't  'nother  man  or 
woman  in  the  whole  country  would  dast  spend  the 
night  here,  Dad;  except  Pete,  of  course.  Not  even 
Young  Matt,  nor  my  Daddy  would  do  it ;  and  I  don't 
guess  they're  afraid  of  anything — anything  that's 
alive,  I  mean.  You're  sure  different,  Dad;  plumb 
different.  I  reckon  it  must  be  the  city  that  does  it. 
And  that's  what  I've  come  to  see  you  about  this 
evenin'.  You  see  Ollie's  been  a  tellin'  me  a  lot  about 
folks  and  things  way  over  there."  She  waved  her 
hand  toward  the  ridges  that  shut  in  the  Hollow. 
"And  Ollie  he's  changed  a  heap  himself  since  he  went 
there  to  live.  I  got  a  letter  today,  and,  when  I  went 
home,  I  hunted  up  the  first  one  he  wrote,  and  I  can 
tell  there's  a  right  smart  difference  already.  You 
know  all  about  Ollie  and  me  goin'  to  get  married, 
I  reckon?" 

Mr.  Howitt  admitted  that  he  had  heard  something 

115 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  that  nature ;  and  Sammy  nodded,  "I  'lowed  you'd 
know.  But  you  don't  know  how  mighty  proud  and 
particular  Ollie  always  is.  I  figure  that  bein'  in  the 
city  with  all  them  fine  folks  ain't  goin'  to  make  him 
any  less  that  way  than  he  was.  And  if  he  stays  there 
and  keeps  on  a  changin',  and  I  stay  here,  and  don't 
change  none,  why  it  might  he  that  I — I — "  She 
faltered  and  came  to  a  dead  stop,  twisting  her  bonnet 
strings  nervously  in  her  confusion.  "Ollie  he  ain't 
like  Young  Matt,  nohow,"  she  said  again.  "Such  as 
that  wouldn't  make  no  difference  with  him.  But 
Ollie — well  you  see — " 

There  was  a  twinkle,  now,  in  the  shepherd's  eye, 
as  he  answered;  "Yes,  I  see;  I  am  quite  sure  that  I 


see." 


The  girl  continued;  "You  know  all  about  these 
things,  Dad.  And  there  ain't  nobody  else  here  that 
does.  Will  you  learn  me  to  be  a  sure  'nough  lady, 
so  as  Ollie  won't — so  he  won't — "  Again  she  paused 
in  confusion.  It  was  evident,  from  the  look  on  Mr. 
Howitt's  face,  that,  whatever  he  saw,  it  was  not  this. 

"I  feel  somehow  like  I  could  do  it,  if  I  had  a 
chance,"  she  murmured. 

There  was  no  answer.  After  a  time,  Sammy  stole 
a  look  at  her  quiet  companion.  What  could  the  man 
in  the  chair  be  thinking  about  ?  His  pipe  was  neg 
lected;  his  gray  head  bowed. 

"Course,"  said  the  young  woman,  with  just  a  little 

116 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

lifting  of  her  chin ;  "Course,  if  I  couldn't  never  learn, 
there  ain't  no  use  to  try." 

The  old  scholar  raised  his  head  and  looked  long 
at  the  girl.  Her  splendid  form,  glowing  with  the 
rich  life  and  strength  of  the  wilderness,  showed  in 
every  line  the  proud  old  southern  blood.  Could  she 
learn  to  be  a  fine  lady?  Mr.  Howitt  thought  of  the 
women  of  the  cities,  pale,  sickly,  colorless,  hot-house 
posies,  beside  this  mountain  flower.  What  would  this 
beautiful  creature  be,  had  she  their  training  ?  What 
would  she  gain  ?  What  might  she  not  lose  ?  Aloud 
he  said,  "My  dear  child,  do  you  know  what  it  is  that 
you  ask  ?" 

Sammy  hung  her  head,  abashed  at  his  serious  tone. 
"I  'lowed  it  would  be  right  smart  trouble  for  you," 
she  said.  "But  I  could  let  you  have  Brownie  in  pay ; 
he  ain't  only  five  years  old,  and  is  as  sound  as  a  but 
ton.  He's  all  I've  got,  Mr.  Howitt.  But  I'd  be 
mighty  proud  to  swap  him  to  you." 

"My  girl,  my  girl,"  said  the  shepherd,  "you  misun 
derstand  me.  I  did  not  mean  that.  It  would  be  a 
pleasure  to  teach  you.  I  was  thinking  how  little 
you  realized  what  the  real  life  of  the  city  is  like,  and 
how  much  you  have  that  the  'fine  ladies,'  as  you  call 
them,  would  give  fortunes  for,  and  how  little  they 
have  after  all  that  could  add  one  ray  of  brightness  to 
your  life." 

Sammy  laughed  aloud,  as  she  cried,  "Me  got  any- 

117 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

thing  that  anybody  would  want  ?  Why,  Dad,  I  ain't 
got  nothnr  but  Brownie,  and  my  saddle,  and — and 
that's  all.  I  sure  ain't  got  nothing  to  lose." 

The  man  smiled  in  sympathy.  Then  slowly  a 
purpose  formed  in  his  mind.  "And  if  you  should 
lose,  you  will  never  blame  me?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Never,  never,"  she  promised  eagerly. 

"Alright,  it  is  a  bargain.     I  will  help  you." 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet.  "I  knew  you  would. 
I  knew  you  would.  I  was  plumb  sure  you  would," 
she  cried,  fairly  quivering  with  life  and  excitement. 
"It's  got  to  be  a  sure  'nough  lady,  Dad.  I  want  to 
be  a  really  truly  fine  lady,  like  them  Ollie  tells  about 
in  his  letters,  you  know." 

"Yes,  Sammy.  I  understand,  a  'sure  enough' 
lady,  and  we  will  do  it,  I  am  sure.  But  it  will  take 
a  great  deal  of  hard  work  on  your  part,  though." 

"I  reckon  it  will,"  she  returned  soberly,  coming 
back  to  her  seat.  Then  drawing  her  chair  a  little 
closer,  she  leaned  toward  her  teacher,  "Begin  now," 
she  commanded.  "Tell  me  what  I  must  do  first." 

Mr.  Howitt  carefully  searched  his  pockets  for  a 
match,  and  lighted  his  pipe  again,  before  he  said, 
"First  you  must  know  what  a  'sure  enough'  lady  is. 
You  see,  Sammy,  there  are  several  kinds  of  women 
who  call  themselves  ladies,  but  are  not  real  ladies 
after  all ;  and  they  all  look  very  much  like  the  'sure 


118 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

enough'  kind;  that  is,  they  look  like  them  to  most 
people." 

Sammy  nodded,  "Just  like  them  Thompsons  down 
by  Flat  Kock.  They're  all  mighty  proud,  'cause  they 
come  from  Illinois  the  same  as  the  Matthews's. 
You'd  think  to  hear  'em  that  Old  Matt  couldn't 
near  ruil  the  ranch  without  'em,  and  some  folks, 
strangers  like,  might  believe  it.  But  we  all  know 
they  ain't  nothing  but  just  low  down  trash,  all  the 
time,  and  no  better  than  some  of  them  folks  over  on 
the  Bend." 

The  shepherd  smiled,  "Something  like  that.  I 
see  you  understand.  Now  a  real  lady,  Sammy,  is  a 
lady  in  three  ways :  First,  in  her  heart ;  I  mean  just 
to  herself,  in  the  things  that  no  one  but  she  could 
ever  know.  A  'sure  enough'  lady  does  not  pretend 
to  be;  she  is" 

Again  the  girl  broke  in  eagerly,  "That's  just  like 
Aunt  Mollie,  ain't  it?  Couldn't  no  one  ever  have  a 
finer  lady  heart  than  her." 

"Indeed,  you  are  right,"  agreed  the  teacher 
heartily.  "And  that  is  the  thing  that  lies  at  the  bot 
tom  of  it  all,  Sammy.  The  lady  heart  comes  first." 

"I  won't  never  forget  that,"  she  returned.  "I 
couldn't  forget  Aunt  Mollie,  nohow.  Tell  me  more, 
Dad." 

"Next,  the  'sure  enough'  lady  must  have  a  lady 


119 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

mind.  She  must  know  how  to  think  and  talk  about 
the  things  that  really  matter.  All  the  fine  dresses 
and  jewels  in  the  world  can't  make  a  real  lady,  if  she 
does  not  think,  or  if  she  thinks  only  of  things  that 
are  of  no  value.  Do  you  see?" 

Again  the  girl  nodded,  and,  with  a  knowing  smile, 
answered  quickly,  "I  know  a  man  like  that.  And  I 
see  now  that  that  is  what  makes  him  so  different 
from  other  folks.  It's  the  things  he  thinks  about  all 
to  himself  that  does  it.  But  I've  got  a  heap  to  learn, 
I  sure  have.  I  could  read  alright,  if  I  had  something 
to  read,  and  I  reckon  I  could  learn  to  talk  like  you 
if  I  tried  hard  enough.  What  else  is  there?" 

Then,  continued  the  shepherd,  "A  lady  will  keep 
her  body  as  strong  and  as  beautiful  as  she  can,  for 
this  is  one  way  that  she  expresses  her  heart  and  mind. 
Do  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

Sammy  answered  slowly,  "I  reckon  I  do.  You 
mean  I  mustn't  get  stooped  over  and  thin  chested, 
and  go  slouching  around,  like  so  many  of  the  girls 
and  women  around  here  do,  and  I  mustn't  let  my 
clothes  go  without  buttons,  'cause  I  am  in  a  hurry, 
and  I  must  always  comb  my  hair,  and  keep  my  hands 
as  white  as  I  can.  Is  that  it  ?" 

"That's  the  idea,"  said  the  shepherd. 

Sammy  gazed  ruefully  at  a  large  rent  in  her  skirt, 
and  at  a  shoe  half  laced.  Then  she  put  up  a  hand  to 
her  tumbled  hair.  "I — I  didn't  think  it  made  any 

120 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

difference,  when  only  home  folks  was  around,"  she 
said. 

"That's  just  it,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man  gently. 
"I  think  a  'sure  enough'  lady  would  look  after  these 
things  whether  there  was  anyone  to  see  her  or  not; 
just  for  herself,  you  know.  And  this  is  where  you 
can  begin.  I  will  send  for  some  books  right  away, 
and  when  they  come  we  will  begin  to  train  your 
mind." 

"But  the  heart,  how'll  I  get  a  lady  heart,  Dad  ?" 

"How  does  the  violet  get  its  perfume,  Sammy? 
Where  does  the  rose  get  its  color  ?  How  does  the  bird 
learn  to  sing  its  song?" 

For  a  moment  she  was  puzzled.  Then  her  face 
lighted ;  "I  see !"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm  just  to  catch 
it  from  folks  like  Aunt  Mollie,  and — and  someone 
else  I  know.  I'm  just  to  be,  not  to  make  believe  or 
let  on  like  I  was,  but  to  be  a  real  lady  inside.  And 
then  I'm  to  learn  how  to  talk  and  look  like  I  know 
myself  to  be."  She  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  rose 
to  go.  "It'll  be  mighty  hard,  Dad,  in  some  ways; 
but  it'll  sure  be  worth  it  all  when  I  get  out  'mong  the 
folks.  I'm  mighty  thankful  to  you,  I  sure  am.  And 
I  hope  you  won't  never  be  sorry  you  promised  to 
help  me." 

As  the  girl  walked  swiftly  away  through  the  thick 
ening  dusk  of  the  evening,  the  shepherd  watched  her 
out  of  sight;  then  turned  toward  the  corral  for  a 

121 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

last  look  at  the  sheep,  to  see  that  all  was  right  for  the 
night.  "Brave,  old  fellow,"  he  said  to  the  dog  who 
trotted  by  his  side;  "are  we  going  to  make  another 
mistake,  do  you  think  ?  We  have  made  so  many,  so 
many,  you  know."  Brave  looked  up  into  the  mas 
ter's  face,  and  answered  with  his  low  bark,  as  though 
to  declare  his  confidence.  "Well,  well,  old  dog,  I 
hope  you  are  right.  The  child  has  a  quick  mind,  and 
a  good  heart ;  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  good  blood. 
We  shall  see.  We  shall  see." 

Suddenly  the  dog  whirled  about,  the  hair  on  his 
back  bristling  as  he  gave  a  threatening  growl.  A  man 
on  a  dun  colored  mule  was  coming  up  the  road. 


133 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  COMMON  YELLER  KIND. 

)E.  HOWITT  stood  quietly  by  the  corral 
wnen  the  horseman  rode  up.  It  was 
Gibbs,  on  his  way  home  from  an 
all  day  visit  with  friends  on  the  river. 

When  the  big  mountaineer  took  the  short  cut 
through  Mutton  Hollow,  he  thought  to  get  well  past 
the  ranch  before  the  light  failed.  No  matter  how 
well  fortified  with  the  courage  distilled  by  his  friend, 
Jennings,  the  big  man  would  never  have  taken  the 
trail  by  the  old  ruined  cabin  alone  after  dark.  He 
had  evidently  been  riding  at  a  good  pace,  for  his 
mule's  neck  and  flanks  were  wet  with  sweat.  Gibbs, 
himself,  seemed  greatly  excited,  and  one  hand  rested 
on  the  pistol  at  his  hip,  as  he  pulled  up  in  front  of 
the  shepherd. 

Without  returning  Mr.  Howitt's  greeting,  he 
pointed  toward  the  two  empty  chairs  in  front  of  the 
house,  demanding  roughly,  "Who  was  that  with  you 
before  you  heard  me  comin  ?" 

"Sammy  Lane  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago,"  re 
plied  the  shepherd. 

Gibbs  uttered  an  oath,  "She  was,  was  she?  Well, 
who  was  th'  man  \" 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

"There  was  no  man,"  returned  the  other.  "Young 
Matt  and  Pete  were  here  for  supper,  but  they  went 
as  soon  as  the  meal  was  finished,  before  Sammy 


came." 


"Don't  you  try  to  lie  to  me!"  exclaimed  the  big 
man,  with  another  burst  of  language,  and  a  threat 
ening  movement  with  the  hand  that  rested  on  the 
pistol. 

Mr.  Howitt  was  startled.  Never  in  his  life  before 
had  such  words  been  addressed  to  him.  He  man 
aged  to  reply  with  quiet  dignity,  "I  have  no  reason 
for  deceiving  you,  or  anyone  else,  Mr.  Gibbs.  There 
has  been  no  man  here  but  myself,  since  Matt  and 
Pete  left  after  supper."  The  shepherd's  manner  car 
ried  conviction,  and  Gibbs  hesitated,  evidently 
greatly  perplexed.  During  the  pause,  Brave  growled 
again,  and  faced  toward  the  cliS  below  the  corral, 
his  hair  bristling. 

"What's  th'  matter  with  that  dog?"  said  Gibbs, 
turning  uneasily  in  his  saddle,  to  face  in  the  direc 
tion  the  animal  was  looking. 

"What  is  it,  Brave  ?"  said  Mr.  Howitt.  The  only 
answer  was  an  uneasy  whine,  followed  by  another 
growl,  all  of  which  said  plainly,  in  dog  talk,  "I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  but  there  is  something  over  there  on 
that  cliff  that  I  don't  like." 

"It  must  be  some  animal,"  said  the  shepherd. 

"Ain't  no  animal  that  makes  a  dog  act  like  that. 

124 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Did  any  body  pass  while  you  was  a  sittin'  there,  jest 
before  I  come  in  sight  ?" 

"Not  a  soul,"  answered  the  other.  "Did  you  meet 
someone  down  the  road?" 

The  big  man  looked  at  the  shepherd  hard  before  he 
answered,  in  a  half-frightened,  half-bullying  tone,  "I 
seed  something  in  th'  road  yonder,  an'  hit  disap 
peared  right  by  th'  old  shack  under  th'  bluffs."  He 
twisted  around  in  his  saddle  again,  facing  the  cliff 
with  its  dense  shadows  and  dim  twilight  forms,  as  he 
muttered,  "If  I  was  only  right  sure,  I — "  Then 
swinging  back  he  leaned  toward  the  man  on  the 
ground;  "Look  a  here,  Mister.  There's  them  that 
'lows  there's  things  in  this  here  Holler  t'  be  afeared 
of,  an'  I  reckon  hit's  so.  There's  sure  been  hell  t' 
pay  at  that  there  cabin  down  yonder.  I  ain't  a  sayin' 
what  hit  was  I  seed,  but  if  hit  war  anywhere  else,  I'd 
a  said  hit  was  a  man;  but  if  hit  was  a  man,  I  don't 
know  why  you  didn't  see  him  when  he  come  past ;  er 
else  you're  a  lyin'.  I  jest  want  t'  tell  you,  you're 
right  smart  of  a  stranger  in  these  here  parts,  even 
if  you  have  been  a  workin'  fer  01'  Matt  all  summer. 
You're  too  blame  careful  'bout  talkin'  'bout  yourself, 
o'  tellm'  whar  you  come  from,  t'  suit  some  folks. 
Some  strangers  are  alright,  an'  again  some  ain't. 
But  we  don't  aim  t'  have  nobody  in  this  here  neigh 
borhood  what  jumps  into  th'  brush  when  they  see  an 
honest  man  a  comin'." 

125 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

As  he  finished  speaking,  Gibbs  straightened  him 
self  in  the  saddle,  and  before  Mr.  Howitt  could  re 
ply,  the  dun  mule,  at  a  touch  of  the  spur,  had  dashed 
away  up  the  road  in  the  direction  taken  by  Sammy 
Lane. 

It  was  quite  dark  in  the  heavy  timber  of  the  Hol 
low  by  the  time  Sammy  had  reached  the  edge  of  the 
open  ground  on  the  hill  side,  but  once  on  the  higher 
level,  clear  of  the  trees,  the  strong  glow  of  the  western 
sky  still  lighted  the  way.  Erom  here  it  was  not  far 
to  the  girl's  home,  and,  as  she  climbed  a  spur  of 
Dewey,  Sammy  saw  the  cabin,  and  heard  distinctly 
the  sweet  strains  of  her  father's  violin.  On  top  of 
the  rise,  the  young  woman  paused  a  moment  to  enjoy 
the  beauties  of  the  evening,  which  seemed  to  come  to 
her  with  a  new  meaning  that  night.  As  she  stood 
there,  her  strong  young  figure  was  clearly  outlined 
against  the  sky  to  the  man  who  was  riding  swiftly 
along  the  road  over  which  she  had  just  passed. 

Sammy  turned  when  she  heard  the  quick  beating 
of  the  mule's  feet;  then,  recognizing  the  huge  form 
of  the  horseman,  as  he  came  out  of  the  woods  into  the 
light,  she  started  quickly  away  towards  her  home; 
but  the  mule  and  its  rider  were  soon  beside  her. 

"Howdy,  Sammy."  Gibbs  leaped  from  the  saddle, 
and,  with  the  bridle  rein  over  his  arm,  came  close  to 
the  girl.  "Erne  evening  for  a  walk." 


126 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Howdy/'  returned  the  young  woman,  coolly, 
quickening  her  pace. 

"You  needn't  t'  be  in  such  a  powerful  hurry," 
growled  Wash.  "If.  you've  got  time  t'  talk  t'  that  old 
cuss  at  th'  ranch,  you  sure  got  time  t'  talk  t'  me." 

Sammy  turned  angrily.  "You'd  better  get  back 
on  your  mule,  and  go  about  your  business,  Wash 
Gibbs.  When  I  want  you  to  walk  with  me,  I'll  let 
you  know." 

"That's  alright,  honey,"  exclaimed  the  other  in 
solently.  "I'm  goin'  your  way  just  th'  same;  an' 
we'll  mosey  'long  t'gether.  I  was  a  goin'  home,  but 
I've  got  business  with  your  paw  now." 

"Worse  thing  for  Daddy,  too,"  flashed  the  girl.  "I 
wish  you'd  stay  away  from  him." 

Wash  laughed;  "Your  daddy  couldn't  keep  house 
'thout  me,  nohow.  Who  was  that  feller  talkin'  with 
you  an'  th'  old  man  down  yonder  ?" 

"There  wasn't  nobody  talkin'  to  us,"  replied 
Sammy  shortly. 

"That's  what  he  said,  too,"  growled  Gibbs;  "but  I 
sure  seed  somebody  a  sneakin'  into  th'  brush  when  I 
rode  up.  I  thought  when  I  was  down  there  hit  might 
o'  been  a  hant;  but  I  know  hit  was  a  man,  now. 
There's  somethin'  mighty  funny  a  goin'  on  around 
here,  since  that  feller  come  int'  th'  neighborhood ;  an* 
he'll  sure  find  somethin'  in  Mutton  Holler  more  alive 
than  01'  Matt's  gal  if  he  ain't  careful." 

127 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  girl  caught  her  breath  quickly.  She  knew  the 
big  ruffian's  methods,  and  with  good  reason  feared 
for  her  old  friend,  should  he  even  unconsciously  incur 
the  giant's  displeasure. 

As  they  drew  near  the  house,  Wash  continued, 
"Young  Matt  he  was  there  too.  Let  me  tell  you  I 
ain't  forgot  'bout  his  big  show  at  th'  mill  last  spring ; 
he'll  have  t'  do  a  heap  better'n  he  done  then,  when 
I  get  'round  t'  him." 

Sammy  laughed  scornfully,  "  'Pears  like  you  ain't 
been  in  no  hurry  t'  try  it  on.  I  ain't  heard  tell  of 
Young  Matt's  leaving  th'  country  yet.  You'd  better 
stay  away  from  Jennings'  still  though,  when  you  do 
try  it."  Then,  while  the  man  was  tying  his  mule  to 
the  fence,  she  ran  into  the  cabin  to  greet  her  father 
with  a  hysterical  sob  that  greatly  astonished  Jim. 
Before  explanations  could  be  made,  a  step  was  heard 
approaching  the  door,  and  Sammy  had  just  time  to 
say,  "Wash  Gibbs,"  in  answer  to  her  father's  inquir 
ing  look,  when  the  big  man  entered.  Mr.  Lane  arose 
to  hang  his  violin  on  its  peg. 

"Don't  stop  fer  me,  Jim,"  said  the  newcomer. 
"Jest  let  her  go.  Me  an'  Sammy's  been  havin'  a  nice 
little  walk,  an'  some  right  peart  music  would  sound 
mighty  fine."  Gibbs  was  angered  beyond  reason  at 
Sammy's  last  words,  or  he  would  have  exercised 
greater  care. 

Sammy's  father  made  no  reply  until  the  girl  had 

128 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

left  the  room,  but  whatever  it  was  that  his  keen  eye 
read  in  his  daughter's  face,  it  made  him  turn  to  his 
guest  with  anything  but  a  cordial  manner,  and  there 
was  that  in  his  voice  that  should  have  warned  the 
other. 

"So  you  and  Sammy  went  for  a  walk,  did  you  ?" 

"She  was  comin'  home  from  th'  sheep  ranch,  an'  I 
caught  up  with  her,"  explained  Gibbs.  "I  'lowed  as 
how  she  needed  company,  so  I  come  'long.  I  seemed 
t'  be  'bout  as  welcome  as  usual,"  he  added  with  an 
ugly  grin. 

"Meanin'  that  my  girl  don't  want  your  company, 
and  told  you  so?"  asked  the  other  softly. 

Wash  answered  with  a  scowl;  "Sammy's  gettin' 
too  dad  burned  good  fer  me  since  Ollie's  uncle  took 
him  in.  An'  now,  this  here  old  man  from  nowhere 
has  come,  it's  worse  than  ever.  She'll  put  a  rope 
'round  our  necks  th'  first  thing  you  know." 

Jim's  right  hand  slipped  quietly  inside  his  hickory 
shirt,  where  the  button  was  missing,  as  he  drawled, 
"My  girl  always  was  too  good  for  some  folks.  And 
it's  about  time  you  was  a  findin'  it  out.  She  can't 
help  it.  She  was  born  that  way.  She's  got  mighty 
good  blood  in  her  veins,  that  girl  has;  and  I  don't 
aim  to  ever  let  it  be  mixed  up  with  none  of  the  low 
down  common  yeller  kind." 

The  deliberate  purpose  of  the  speaker  was  too  evi* 
dent  to  be  mistaken.  The  other  man's  hand  flew  to 

129 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  hip  almost  before  Mr.  Lane  had  finished  his  sen 
tence.  But  Wash  was  not  quick  enough.  Like  a  flash 
Jim's  hand  was  withdrawn  from  inside  the  hickory 
shirt,  and  the  giant  looked  squarely  into  the  muzzle 
of  Jim  Lane's  ever  ready,  murderous  weapon. 

In  the  same  even  voice,  without  the  slightest  allu 
sion  to  the  unfinished  movement  of  the  other,  Mr. 
Lane  continued,  "I  done  told  you  before  that  my 
girl  would  pick  her  own  company,  and  I  ain't  never 
feared  for  a  minute  that  she'd  take  up  with  such  as 
you.  Ollie  Stewart  ain't  so  mighty  much  of  a  man, 
maybe,  but  he's  clean,  he  is,  and  the  stock's  pretty 
good.  Now  you  can  just  listen  to  me,  or  you  can 
mosey  out  of  that  door,  and  the  next  time  we  meet, 
we  will  settle  it  for  good,  without  any  further  ar 
rangement." 

As  Sammy's  father  talked,  the  big  figure  of  his 
visitor  relaxed,  and  when  Jim  had  finished  his  slow 
speech,  Wash  was  leaning  forward  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  his  hands  clasped  in  front.  "We  ain't  got 
no  call  t'  fight,  now,  Jim,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  re 
spect.  "We  got  something  else  t'  think  about;  an' 
that's  what  I  come  here  fer  t'night.  I  didn't  aim  t', 
'til  I  seed  what  I  did  at  th'  ranch  down  yonder.  I 
tell  you  hit's  time  we  was  a  doin'  somethin'." 

At  this,  Mr.  Lane's  face  and  manner  changed 
quickly.  He  put  up  his  weapon,  and  the  two  men 
drew  their  chairs  close  together,  as  though  Death 

130 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

bad  not  a  moment  before  stretched  fortb  bis  band 
to  tbem. 

For  an  bour  they  sat  talking  in  low  tones.  Sammy 
in  tbe  next  room  bad  beard  tbe  conversation  up  to 
tbis  point,  but  now  only  an  occasional  word  reacbed 
ber  ears.  Gibbs  seemed  to  be  urging  some  action^ 
and  ber  father  was  as  vigorously  protesting.  "I  tell 
you,  Jim,  hit's  th'  only  safe  way.  You  didn't  use  t? 
be  so  squeamish."  Several  times  the  old  shepherd  was 
mentioned,  and  also  the  stranger  whom  Wash  had 
seen  that  evening.  And  once,  the  trembling  girl  heard 
Young  ]\f  att's  name.  At  length  the  guest  rose  to  go, 
and  Mr.  Lane  walked  with  him  to  the  gate.  Even 
after  the  big  man  was  mounted,  the  conversation  still 
continued;  Wash  still  urging  and  Jim  still  protest 
ing. 

When  bis  visitor  was  gone,  Mr.  Lane  came  slowly 
back  to  the  house.  Extinguishing  the  light,  he  seated 
himself  in  the  open  doorway,  and  filled  his  pipe. 
Sammy  caught  tbe  odor  of  tobacco,  and  a  moment 
later  Jim  heard  a  light,  quick  step  on  the  floor  behind 
him.  Then  two  arms  went  around  his  neck;  "What 
is  it,  Daddy  ?  What  it  it  ?  Why  don't  you  drive  that 
man  away?" 

"Did  you  bear  us  talkin'  ?"  asked  the  man,  an 
anxious  note  in  bis  voice. 

"I  heard  you  talkin'  to  him  about  pesterin'  me,  but 
after  that,  yon  didn't  talk  so  loud.  What  is  tbe 

131 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

matter,  Daddy,  that  he  could  stay  and  be  so  thick 
with  you  after  the  things  you  said  ?  I  was  sure  he'd 
make  you  kill  him." 

Jim  laughed  softly;  "you're  just  like  your  mother, 
girl.  Just  like  her,  with  the  old  blood  a  backin' 
you  up."  Then  he  asked  a  number  of  questions  about 
Mr.  Howitt,  and  her  visit  to  the  ranch  that  evening. 

As  Sammy  told  him  of  her  ambition  to  fit  herself 
for  the  place  that  would  be  hers,  when  she  married, 
and  repeating  the  things  that  Mr.  Howitt  had  told 
her,  explained  how  the  shepherd  had  promised  to 
help,  Jim  expressed  his  satisfaction  and  delight.  "I 
knowed  you  was  a  study  in'  about  something,  girl," 
he  said,  "but  I  didn't  say  nothin',  'cause  I  'lowed 
you'd  tell  me  when  you  got  ready." 

"I  didn't  want  to  say  nothing  'til  I  was  sure,  you 
see,"  replied  the  daughter.  "I  aimed  to  tell  you  as 
soon  as  I  got  home  tonight,  but  Wash  Gibbs  didn't 
give  me  no  chance." 

The  man  held  her  close.  "Dad  Howitt  sure  puts 
the  thing  just  right,  Sammy.  It'll  be  old  times  come 
back,  when  you're  a  lady  in  your  own  house  with  all 
your  fine  friends  around ;  and  you'll  do  it,  girl ;  you 
sure  will.  Don't  never  be  afraid  to  bank  on  the  old 
blood.  It'll  see  you  through."  Then  his  voice  broke ; 
"You  won't  never  be  learned  away  from  your  old 
Daddy,  will  you,  honey  ?  Will  you  always  stand  by 
Daddy,  like  you  do  now  ?  Will  you  let  me  and  Young 

132 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Matt  slip  'round  once  in  a  while,  just  to  look  at  you, 
all  so  fine  ?" 

"Daddy  Jim,  if  you  don't— hush— I'll— I'll— " 
she  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

"There,  there,  honey;  I  was  only  funnin'.  You'll 
always  be  my  Sammy ;  the  only  boy  I  ever  had.  You 
just  naturally  couldn't  be  nothin'  else." 

Long  after  his  daughter  had  gone  to  her  room  and 
to  her  bed,  the  mountaineer  sat  in  the  doorway,  look 
ing  into  the  dark.  He  heard  the  short  bark  of  a  fox 
in  the  brush  back  of  the  stable ;  and  the  wild  cry  of 
a  catamount  from  a  cliff  farther  down  the  mountain 
was  answered  by  another  from  the  timber  below  the 
spring.  He  saw  the  great  hills  heaving  their  dark 
forms  into  the  sky,  and  in  his  soul  he  felt  the  spirit 
of  the  wilderness  and  the  mystery  of  the  hour.  At 
last  he  went  into  the  house  to  close  and  bar  the  door. 

Away  down  in  Mutton  Hollow  a  dog  barked,  and 
high  up  on  Old  Dewey  near  Sammy's  Lookout,  a 
spot  of  light  showed  for  a  moment,  then  vanished. 


133 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  PARTY  AT  FORD'S. 

OUNG  MATT  would  have  found  some 
excuse  for  staying  at  home  the  night  of 
the  party  at  Ford's,  but  the  shepherd 
said  he  must  go. 

The  boy  felt  that  the  long  evening  with  Sammy 
would  only  hurt.  He  reasoned  with  himself  that  it 
would  be  better  for  him  to  see  as  little  as  possible 
of  the  girl  who  was  to  marry  Ollie  Stewart.  Never 
theless,  he  was  singing  as  he  saddled  the  big  white 
faced  sorrel  to  ride  once  more  over  the  trail  that  is 
nobody  knows  how  old. 

Mr.  Lane  was  leading  the  brown  pony  from  the 
stable  as  Young  Matt  rode  up  to  the  gate ;  and  from 
the  doorway  of  the  cabin  Sammy  called  to  say  that 
she  would  be  ready  in  a  minute. 

"Ain't  seen  you  for  a  coonrs  age,  boy,"  said  Jim, 
while  they  were  waiting  for  the  girl.  "Why  don't 
you  never  come  down  the  Old  Trail  no  more  ?" 

The  big  fellow's  face  reddened,  as  he  answered,  "I 
ain't  been  nowhere,  Jim.  'Pears  like  I  just  can't 
<?et  away  from  the  place  no  more ;  we're  that  busy." 

Emmy's    father    looked     his    young    neighbor 

134 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

squarely  in  the  eye  with  that  peculiar  searching 
gaze;  "Look  a  here,  Grant.  I've  knowed  you  ever 
since  you  was  born,  and  you  ought  to  know  me  a 
little.  'Tain't  your  way  to  dodge,  and  Hain't  mine. 
I  reckon  you  know  you're  welcome,  same  as  always, 
don't  you?" 

Young  Matt  returned  the  other's  look  fairly;  "I 
ain't  never  doubted  it,  Jim.  But  things  is  a  heap 
different  now,  since  it's  all  done  and  settled,  with 
Ollie  gone." 

The  two  understood  each  other  perfectly.  Said 
Jim,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "Well  I  wish  you'd  come 
over  just  the  same,  anyway.  It  can't  do  nobody  no 
harm  as  I  can  see." 

"It  wouldn't  do  me  no  good,"  replied  the  young 
man. 

"Maybe  not,"  assented  Jim.  "But  I'd  like  mighty 
well  to  have  you  come  just  the  same."  Then  he  drew 
closer  to  his  young  friend ;  "I've  been  aimin'  to  ride 
over  and  see  you,  Matt;  but  Sammy  said  you  was  a 
comin'  this  evenin',  and  I  'lowed  this  would  be  soon 
enough.  I  reckon  you  know  what  Wash  Gibbs  is 
tellin'  he  aims  to  do  first  chance  he  gets." 

The  giant  drew  himself  up  with  a  grim  smile, 
"I've  heard  a  good  bit,  Jim.  But  you  don't  need  to 
mind  about  me ;  I  know  I  ain't  quite  growed,  but  I 
am  a  growin'." 

The  older  man  surveyed  the  great  form  of  the 

135 


'' 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

other  with  a  critical  eye,  as  he  returned,  "Durned  if 
I  don't  believe  you'd  push  him  mighty  close,  if  he'd 
only  play  fair.  But — but  I  'lowed  you  ought  to 
know  it  was  a  comin'." 

"I  have  knowed  it  for  a  long  time,"  said  the  other 
cheerfully;  "but  I  heard  'Preachin'  Bill'  say  once, 
that  if  a  feller  don't  fuss  about  what  he  knows  for 
sure,  the  things  he  don't  know  ain't  apt  to  bother 
him  none.  It's  this  here  guessin'  that  sure  gets  a 
man  down." 

"  Treachin'  Bill,  hits  it  every  pop,  don't  he  ?" 
exclaimed  Jim,  admiringly.  "But  there's  somethin' 
else  you  ought  to  know,  too,  Matt.  Wash  has  done 
made  his  threats  agin  the  old  man  down  there." 

"You  mean  Dad  Howitt?"  said  Young  Matt, 
sharply.  "What's  Wash  got  agin  Dad,  Jim  ?" 

Mr.  Lane  shifted  uneasily,  "Some  fool  notion  of 
hisn.  You  mind  old  man  Lewis,  I  reckon  ?" 

The  big  man's  muscles  tightened.  "Dad  told  us 
about  his  stoppin'  at  the  ranch  the  other  night.  Wash 
Gibbs  better  keep  his  hands  off  Mr.  Howitt." 

"I  ain't  told  nobody  about  this,  Grant,  and  you 
can  do  as  you  like  about  tellin'  your  father,  and  the 
old  man.  But  if  anything  happens,  get  word  to  me, 
quick." 

Before  more  could  be  said,  Sammy  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  and  soon  the  two  young  people  were  riding 
on  their  way.  Long  after  they  had  passed  from  sight 

136 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS  >   > 

in  the  depth  of  the  forest,  the  dark  mountaineer  stood 
at  the  big  gate,  looking  in  the  direction  they  had 
gone. 

Young  Matt  was  like  a  captive,  tugging  at  his 
bonds.  Mr.  Lane's  words  had  stirred  the  fire,  and 
the  girl's  presence  by  his  side  added  fuel  to  the  flame. 
He  could  not  speak.  He  dared  not  even  look  at  her, 
but  rode  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  where 
the  sunlight  fell  in  long  bars  of  gold.  Sammy,  too, 
was  silent.  She  felt  something  that  was  strangely 
like  fear,  when  she  found  herself  alone  with  her  big 
neighbor.  Xow  and  then  she  glanced  timidly  up  at 
him  and  tried  to  find  some  word  with  which  to  break 
the  silence.  She  half  wished  that  she  had  not  come- 
So  they  rode  together  through  the  lights  and  shadows 
down  into  the  valley,  the  only  creatures  in  all  the  f  rea 
life  of  the  forest  who  were  not  free. 

At  last  the  girl  spoke,  "It's  mighty  good  of  you 
to  take  me  over  to  Mandy's  tonight.  There  ain't  no 
one  else  I  could  o'  gone  with."  There  was  no  reply, 
and  Sammy,  seeming  not  to  notice,  continued  talking 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone  that  soon — for  such  is  the 
way  of  a  woman — won  him  from  his  mood,  and  the 
two  chatted  away  like  the  good  comrades  they  had 
always  been. 

Just  after  they  had  crossed  Fall  Creek  at  Slick   <* 
Rock  Ford,  some  two  miles  below  the  mill,  Young 
Matt  leaned  from  his  saddle,  and  for  a  little  way 

137 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

studied  the  ground  carefully.  When  he  sat  erect 
again,  he  remarked,  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
reached  a  conclusion,  "Wouldn't  wonder  but  there'll 
be  doin's  at  Ford's  tonight,  sure  enough." 

"There's  sure  to  be,"  returned  the  girl;  "every- 
body'll  be  there.  Mandy's  folks  from  over  on  Long 
Creek  are  comin',  and  some  from  the  mouth  of  the 
James.  Mandy  wanted  Daddy  to  play  for  'em,  but 
he  says  he  can't  play  for  parties  no  more,  and  they 
got  that  old  fiddlin'  Jake  from  the  Flag  neighbor 
hood,  I  guess." 

"There'll  be  somethin'  a  heap  more  excitin'  than 
fiddlin'  and  dancin',  accordin'  to  my  guess,"  returned 
Young  Matt. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Sammy. 

Her  escort  pointed  to  the  print  of  a  mule's  shoe  in 
the  soft  soil  of  the  low  bottom  land.  "That  there's 
Wash  Gibbs's  dun  mule,  and  he's  headed  down  the 
creek  for  Jennings's  still.  Wash'll  meet  a  lot  of  his 
gang  from  over  on  the  river,  and  like's  not  they'll  go 
from  there  to  the  party.  I  wish  your  dad  was  goin' 
to  do  the  play  in'  tonight." 

It  was  full  dark  before  they  reached  the  Ford 
clearing.  The  faint,  far  away  sound  of  a  violin, 
seeming  strange  and  out  of  place  in  the  gloomy  soli 
tude  of  the  great  woods,  first  told  them  that  other 
guests  had  already  arrived.  Then  as  they 


138 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

nearer  and  the  tones  of  the  instrument  grew  louder, 
they  could  hear  the  rhythmic  swing  and  beat  of  heav 
ily  shod  feet  upon  the  rough  board  floors,  with  the 
shrill  cries  of  the  caller,  and  the  half  savage,  half 
pathetic  sing-song  of  the  backwoods  dancers,  singing, 
"Missouri  Gal." 

Reaching  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  they  involuntar 
ily  checked  their  horses,  stopping  just  within  the 
shadow  of  the  timber.  Here  the  sound  of  the  squeak 
ing  fiddle,  the  shouting  caller,  the  stamping  feet,  and 
the  swinging  dancers  came  with  full  force;  and, 
through  the  open  door  and  windows  of  the  log  house, 
they  could  see  the  wheeling,  swaying  figures  of  coat- 
less  men  and  calico  gowned  women,  while  the  light, 
streaming  out,  opened  long  lanes  in  the  dusk.  About 
them  in  the  forest's  edge,  standing  in  groups  under 
the  trees,  were  the  shadowy  forms  of  saddle  horses 
and  mules,  tied  by  their  bridle  reins  to  the  lower 
branches ;  and  nearer  to  the  cabin,  two  or  three  teams, 
tied  to  the  rail-fence,  stood  hitched  to  big  wagons  in 
which  were  splint-bottom  chairs  for  extra  seats. 

During  the  evening,  the  men  tried  in  their  rough, 
good  natured  way,  to  joke  Young  Matt  about  taking 
advantage  of  Ollie  Stewart's  absence,  but  they  very 
soon  learned  that,  while  the  big  fellow  was  ready  to 
enter  heartily  into  all  the  fun  of  the  occasion,  he 
would  not  receive  as  a  jest  any  allusion  to  his  relation 


139 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE 

to  the  girl,  whom  he  had  escorted  to  the  party, 
Sammy,  too,  when  her  big  companion  was  not  near, 
suffered  from  the  crude  wit  of  her  friends. 

"Ollie  Stewart  don't  own  me  jet,"  she  declared 
with  a  toss  of  the  head,  when  someone  threatened  to 
write  her  absent  lover. 

"No,"  replied  one  of  her  tormentors,  "but  you 
ain't  aim  in'  to  miss  your  chance  o'  goin'  t'  th'  city  f 
live  with  them  big-bugs." 

In  the  laugh  that  followed,  Sammy  was  claimed  by 
a  tall  woodsman  for  the  next  dance,  and  escaped  to 
take  her  place  on  the  floor. 

"Well,  Ollie'll  sure  make  a  good  man  for  her," 
remarked  another  joker;  "if  he  don't  walk  th'  chalk, 
she  can  take  him  'cross  her  knee  an'  wallop  him." 

"She'll  surely  marry  him,  alright,"  said  the  first 
"  'cause  he's  got  th'  money,  but  she's  goin'  t'  have  a 
heap  o'  fun  makin'  Young  Matt  play  th'  fool  before 
she  leaves  th'  woods.  He  ain't  took  his  eyes  off  her 
t'night.  Everybody's  laughin'  at  him." 

"I  notice  they  take  mighty  good  care  t'  laugh  be 
hind  his  back,"  flashed  little  black-eyed  Annie  Brooks 
from  the  Cove  neighborhood. 

Young  Matt,  who  had  been  dancing  with  Mandy 
Ford,  came  up  behind  the  group  just  in  time  to  hear 
their  remarks.  Two  or  three  who  saw  him  within 
hearing  tried  to  warn  the  speakers,  but  while  every 
body  around  them  saw  the  situation,  the  two  men 

140 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

caught  the  frantic  signals  of  their  friends  too  late. 
The  music  suddenly  stopped.  The  dancers  were  still. 
By  instinct  every  eye  in  the  room  was  fixed  upon  the 
little  group,  as  the  jokers  turned  to  face  the  object 
of  their  jests. 

The  big  mountaineer  took  one  long  step  toward  the 
two  who  had  spoken,  his  brow  dark  with  rage,  his 
huge  fists  clenched.  But,  even  as  his  powerful  mus 
cles  contracted  for  the  expected  blow,  the  giant  came 
to  a  dead  stop.  Slowly  his  arm  relaxed.  His  hand 
dropped  to  his  side.  Then,  turning  deliberately,  he 
walked  to  the  door,  the  silent  crowd  parting  to  give 
him  way. 

As  the  big  man  stepped  from  the  room,  a  gasp  of 
astonishment  escaped  from  the  company,  and  the 
two  jokers,  with  frightened  faces,  broke  into  a  shrill, 
nervous  laughter.  Then  a  buzz  of  talk  went  round ; 
the  fiddlers  struck  up  again ;  the  callers  shouted ;  the 
dancers  stamped,  and  bowed,  and  swung  their  part 
ners  as  they  sang. 

And  out  in  the  night  under  the  trees,  at  the  edge 
of  the  gloomy  forest,  the  strongest  man  in  the  hills 
was  saying  over  and  over  to  the  big,  white  faced  sor 
rel,  "I  don't  dare  do  it.  I  don't  dare.  Dad  Howitt 
wouldn't.  He  sure  wouldn't." 

Very  soon  two  figures  left  the  house,  and  hurried 
toward  a  bunch  of  saddle  horses  near  by.  They  had 
untied  their  animals,  and  were  about  to  mount,  when 

141 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

suddenly  a  huge  form  stepped  from  the  shadows  to 
their  horses'  heads.  "Put  up  your  guns,  boys,"  said 
Young  Matt  calmly.  "I  reckon  you  know  that  if  I'd 
wanted  trouble,  it  would  o'  been  all  over  before  this." 

The  weapons  were  not  drawn,  and  the  big  man 
continued,  "Dad  Howitt  says  a  feller  always  whips 
himself  every  time  he  fights  when  there  ain't  no — no 
principle  evolved.  I  don't  guess  Dad  would  see  ary 
principle  in  this,  'cause  there  might  be  some  truth  in 
what  you  boys  said.  I  reckon  .1  am  somethin'  at 
playin'  a  fool,  but  it  would  o'  been  a  heap  safer  for 
you  to  let  folks  find  it  out  for  themselves." 

"We  all  were  jest  a  foolin',  Matt,"  muttered  one. 

"That's  alright,"  returned  the  big  fellow;  "But 
you'd  better  tie  up  again  and  go  back  into  the  house 
and  dance  a  while  longer.  Folks  might  think  you 
was  scared  if  you  was  to  leave  so  soon." 


143 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
ON  THE  WAY  HOME. 

until  the  party  was  breaking  up,  and 
NT  he  saw  Sammy  in  the  doorway,  did 
1  ^i  ff.  Young  Matt  go  back  to  the  house. 

"When  they  had  ridden  again  out  of 
the  circle  of  light,  and  the  laughter  and  shouting  of 
the  guests  was  no  longer  heard,  Sammy  tried  in  vain 
to  arouse  her  silent  escort,  chatting  gaily  about  the 
pleasures  of  the  evening.  But  all  the  young  man's 
reserve  had  returned.  When  she  did  force  him  to 
speak,  his  responses  were  so  short  and  cold  that  at 
last  the  girl,  too,  was  silent.  Then,  man-like,  he 
wished  she  would  continue  talking. 

By  the  time  they  reached  Compton  Ridge  the  moon 
was  well  up.  For  the  last  two  miles  Sammy  had  been 
watching  the  wavering  shafts  of  light  that  slipped 
through  tremulous  leaves  and  swaying  branches.  As 
they  rode,  a  thousand  fantastic  shapes  appeared  and 
vanished  along  the  way,  and  now  and  then  as  the 
sound  of  their  horses'  feet  echoed  through  the  silent 
forest,  some  wild  thing  in  the  underb^nish  leaped 
away  into  the  gloomy  depth. 

Coming  out  on  top  of  the  narrow  ridge,  the  brown 
143 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

pony  crowded  closer  to  the  big,  white  faced  sorrel, 
and  the  girl,  stirred  by  the  weird  loveliness  of  the 
scene,  broke  the  silence  with  an  exclamation,  "0 
Matt !  Ain't  it  fine  ?  Look  there !"  She  pointed  to 
the  view  ahead.  "Makes  me  feel  like  I  could  keep  on 
a  goin',  and  goin',  and  never  stop." 

The  man,  too,  felt  the  witchery  of  the  night.  The 
horses  were  crowding  more  closely  together  now,  and, 
leaning  forward,  the  girl  looked  up  into  his  face; 
"What's  the  matter,  Matt?  Why  don't  you  talk  to 
me?  You  know  it  ain't  true  what  them  folks  said 
back  there." 

The  sorrel  was  jerked  farther  away.  "It's  true 
enough,  so  far  as  it  touches  me,"  returned  the  man 
shortly.  "When  are  you  goin'  to  the  city  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "Let's  don't  talk 
about  that,  tonight.  I  don't  want  even  to  think  about 
it,  not  tonight.  You — you  don't  believe  what  they 
was  a  sayin',  Matt ;  you  know  you  don't.  You  mustn't 
ever  believe  such  as  that.  I — I  never  could  get  along 
without  you  and  Aunt  Mollie  and  Uncle  Matt,  no 
how."  The  brown  pony  was  again  crowding  closer  to 
his  mate.  The  girl  laid  a  hand  on  her  companion's 
arm.  "Say  you  don't  blame  me  for  what  they  said, 
Matt.  You  know  I  wouldn't  do  no  such  a  thing  even  if 
I  could.  There  mustn't  anything  ever  come  between 
you  and  me ;  never — never.  I — I  want  us  always  to 
be  like  we  are  now.  You've  been  so  good  to  me  ever 

144 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

since  I  was  a  little  trick,  and  you  whipped  big  Lena 
Wheeler  for  teasin'  me.  I — I  don't  guess  I  could 
get  along  without  knowin'  you  was  around  some* 
where."  She  finished  with  a  half  sob. 

It  was  almost  too  much.  The  man  swung  around 
in  his  saddle,  and  the  horses,  apparently  of  their 
own  accord,  stopped.  Without  a  word,  the  big  fellow 
stretched  forth  his  arms,  and  the  girl,  as  if  swept 
by  a  force  beyond  her  control,  felt  herself  swaying 
toward  him. 

The  spell  was  broken  by  the  trampling  of  horses 
and  the  sound  of  loud  voices.  Eor  a  moment  they 
held  their  places,  motionless,  as  if  rudely  awakened 
from  a  dream.  The  sound  was  coming  nearer.  Then 
Young  Matt  spoke,  "It's  Wash  Gibbs  and  his  crowd 
from  the  still.  Ride  into  the  brush  quick." 

There  was  no  time  for  flight.  In  the  bright  moon 
light,  they  would  have  been  easily  recognized,  and  a 
wild  chase  would  have  followed.  Leaving  the  road, 
they  forced  their  horses  into  a  thick  clump  of  bushes, 
where  they  dismounted,  to  hold  the  animals  by  their 
heads.  Scarcely  had  they  gained  this  position  when 
the  first  of  the  crowd  reached  the  spot  where  they 
had  been  a  moment  before.  Wash  Gibbs  was  easily 
distinguished  by  his  gigantic  form,  and  with  him 
were  ten  others,  riding  two  and  two,  several  of  whom 
were  known  to  Young  Matt  as  the  most  lawless  char 
acters  in  the  country.  All  were  fired  by  drink  and 

145 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

were  laughing  and  talking,  with  now  and  then  a  burst 
of  song,  or  a  vulgar  jest. 

"I  say,  Wash,"  called  one,  "What'll  you  do  if 
Young  Matt' s  there?'7  The  unseen  listeners  could 
not  hear  the  leader's  reply;  but  those  about  the 
speaker  laughed  and  shouted  with  great  glee.  Then 
the  two  in  the  bushes  distinctly  heard  the  last  man  in 
the  line  ask  his  companion,  "Do  you  reckon  he'll  put 
up  a  fight  ?"  and  as  they  passed  from  sight,  the  other 
answered,  "Wash  don't  aim  t'  give  him  no  show." 

When  the  sounds  had  died  away,  Young  Matt 
turned  to  the  girl ;  "Come  on ;  we've  got  to  keep  'em 
in  sight." 

But  Sammy  held  back.  "Oh,  Matt,  don't  go  yet. 
We  must  not.  Didn't  you  hear  what  that  man  said  ? 
It's  you  they're  after.  Let's  wait  here  until  they're 
clean  gone." 

"No,  'tain't;  they  ain't  a  wantnr  me,"  the  big 
fellow  replied.  And  before  the  young  woman  could 
protest  further,  he  lifted  her  to  the  saddle  as  easily 
as  if  she  were  a  child.  Then,  springing  to  the  back 
of  his  own  horse,  he  led  the  way  at  a  pace  that  would 
keep  them  within  hearing  of  the  company  of  men. 

"Who  is  it,  Matt?  Who  is  it,  if  it  ain't  you?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"Don't  know  for  sure  yet,  but  I'll  tell  you  pretty 


soon." 


They  had  not  gone  far  when  Young  Matt  stopped 
146 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  horses  to  listen  intently;  and  soon  by  the  sound 
he  could  tell  that  the  party  ahead  had  turned  off  from 
the  ridge  road  and  were  following  the  trail  that  leads 
down  the  eastern  side  of  the  mountain.  A  moment 
longer  the  mountaineer  listened,  as  if  to  make  sure; 
then  he  spoke;  "Them  devils  are  goin'  to  the  ranch 
after  Dad  Howitt.  Sammy,  you've  got  to  ride  hard 
tonight.  They  won't  hear  you  now,  and  they're  get 
ting  farther  off  every  minute.  There  ain't  no  other 
way,  and  I  know  you'll  do  it  for  the  old  man.  Get 
home  as  quick  as  you  can  and  tell  Jim  what's  up. 
Tell  him  I'll  hold  'em  until  he  gets  there."  Even  as 
he  spoke,  he  sprang  from  his  horse  and  began  loosen 
ing  the  saddle  girths. 

"But,  Matt,"  protested  the  girl;  "how  can  you? 
You  can't  get  by  them.  How're  you  goin'  to  get  there 
in  time?" 

"Down  the  mountain ;  short  cut ;"  he  answered  as 
he  jerked  the  heavy  saddle  from  his  horse  and  threw 
it  under  some  nearby  bushes. 

"But  they'll  kill  you.  You  can't  never  face  that 
whole  crowd  alone." 

"I  can  do  it  better 'n  Dad,  and  him  not  a  lookin' 
for  them." 

Slipping  the  bridle  from  the  sorrel,  he  turned  the 
animal  loose,  and,  removing  his  coat  and  hat,  laid 
them  with  the  saddle.  Then  to  the  girl  on  the  pony 
he  said  sharply,  "Go  on,  Sammy.  Why  dcn't  you  go 

147 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

tm  ?  Don't  you  see  how  you're  losin'  time  ?  Them 
devils  will  do  for  Dad  Howitt  like  they  done  for  old 
man  Lewis.  Your  father's  the  only  man  can  stop 
'em  now.  Ride  hard,  girl,  and  tell  Jim  to  hurry. 
And — and,  good-by,  Sammy."  As  he  finished,  he 
spoke  to  her  horse  and  struck  him  such  a  blow  that 
the  animal  sprang  away. 

For  a  moment  Sammy  attempted  to  pull  up  her 
startled  pony.  Then  Young  Matt  saw  her  lean  for 
ward  in  the  saddle,  and  urge  the  little  horse  to  even 
greater  speed.  As  they  disappeared  down  the  road, 
the  giant  turned  and  ran  crashing  through  the  brush 
down  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain.  There  was  no 
path  to  follow.  And  with  deep  ravines  to  cross,  rocky 
bluffs  to  descend  or  scale,  and,  in  places,  wild  tangles 
of  vines  and  brush  and  fallen  trees,  the  trip  before 
him  would  have  been  a  hard  one  even  in  the  full  light 
of  day.  At  night,  it  was  almost  impossible,  and  he 
must  go  like  a  buck  with  the  dogs  in  full  cry. 

When  Sammy  came  in  sight  of  her  home,  she  be 
gan  calling  to  her  father,  and,  as  the  almost  ex 
hausted  horse  dashed  up  to  the  big  gate,  the  door  of 
the  cabin  opened,  and  Jim  came  running  out.  Lift 
ing  his  daughter  from  the  trembling  pony,  he  helped 
her  into  the  house,  where  she  sobbed  out  her  mes 
sage. 

At  the  first  word,  "Wash  Gibbs,"  Jim  reached  for 
a  cartridge  belt,  and,  by  the  time  Sammy  had  fin- 

148 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

ished,  he  had  taken  his  Winchester  from  its  brackets 
over  the  fireplace.  Slipping  a  bridle  on  his  horse 
that  was  feeding  in  the  yard,  he  sprang  upon  the  ani 
mal's  back  without  waiting  for  a  saddle.  "Stay  in 
the  cabin,  girl,  put  out  the  light,  and  don't  open  the 
door  until  I  come,"  he  said  and  he  was  gone. 

As  Sammy  turned  back  into  the  house,  from  away 
down  in  Mutton  Hollow,  on  the  night  wind,  came  the 
sound  of  guns. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THE  RANCH. 

»T  was  after  midnight  when  Mr.  Howitt 
was  rudely  awiikeuod.  The  bright  moon 
shining  through  the  windows  lit  up  the 
interior  of  the  cabin  and  he  easily  rec 
ognized  Young  Matt  standing  by  the  bed,  with  Pete, 
who  was  sleeping  at  tne  ranch  that  night,  near  by. 

"AVhy,  Matt,  what  is  the  matter?"  exelaimed  the 
shepherd,  sitting  up.  lie  eould  not  see  that  the  big 
fellow's  clothing  was  torn,  that  his  hat  was  gone,  and 
that  he  was  dripping  writh  perspiration;  but  he  conld 
hear  his  labored  breathing.  Strong  as  he  was,  the 
young  giant  was  nearly  exhausted  by  the  strain  of  his 
race  over  the  mountains. 

"Get  up  quick,  Dad;  I'll  tell  you  while  you're 
puttin*  on  your  clothes,"  the  woodsman  answered; 
Mid  while  the  shepherd  dressed,  he  told  him  in  a  few 
'tfords,  finishing  with,  "Call  Brave  inside,  and  get 
your  gun,  with  all  the  shells  you  can  find.  Don't 
show  a  light  for  a  minute.  They'll  be  here  any  time 
now,  and  it'll  be  a  good  bit  yet  before  Sammy  can  get 
home."  He  began  fastening  tne  front  door. 

The  peaceful  minded  scholar  could  not  grasp  the 
meaning  of  the  message;  it  was  to  him  an  impossible 

150 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

thought;  "You  must  be  mistaken,  Grant,"  he  said, 
"Surely  you  are  excited  and  unduly  alarmed.  Wash 
Gibbs  has  no  reason  to  attack  me." 

Young  Matt  replied  gruffly,  "I  ain't  makin'  no 
mistake  in  the  woods,  Dad.  You  ain't  in  the  city 
now,  and  there  ain't  no  one  can  hear  you  holler. 
Don't  think  I  am  scared  neither,  if  that's  what  you 
mean.  But  there's  ten  of  them  in  that  bunch,  and 
they're  bad  ones.  You'd  better  call  Brave,  sir.  He'll 
be  some  help  when  it  comes  to  the  rush." 

But  the  other  persisted,  "You  must  be  mistaken, 
lad.  Why  should  any  one  wish  to  harm  me  ?  Those 
men  are  only  out  fox  hunting,  or  something  like  that. 
If  they  should  be  coming  here,  it  is  all  a  mistake ;  I 
can  easily  explain." 

"Explain,  hell!"  ejaculated  the  mountaineer.  "I 
ask  your  pardon,  Dad ;  but  you  don't  know,  not  being 
raised  in  these  woods  like  me.  Old  man  Lewis 
hadn't  done  nothing  neither,  and  he  explained,  too; 
only  he  never  got  through  explainin'.  They  ain't  got 
no  reason.  They're  drunk.  You've  never  seen  Wash 
Gibbs  drunk,  and  tonight  he's  got  his  whole  gang 
with  him.  I  don't  know  why  he's  comin'  after  you, 
but,  from  what  you  told  me  'bout  his  stoppin'  here 
that  evenin',  and  what  I've  heard  lately,  I  can  guess. 
I  know  what  he'll  do  when  he  gets  here,  if  we  don't 
stop  him.  It'll  be  all  the  same  to  you  whether  he's 
right  or  wrong." 

151 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Brave  came  trotting  into  the  cabin  through  the 
rear  door,  and  lay  down  in  his  corner  by  the  fire 
place.  "That's  mighty  funny,"  said  Young  Matt. 
Then,  as  he  glanced  quickly  around,  "Where's  Pete  ?" 

The  boy  had  slipped  away  while  the  two  men  were 
talking.  Stepping  outside  they  called  several  times; 
but,  save  the  "Wh-w-h-o — w-h-o-o-o"  of  an  owl  in 
a  big  tree  near  the  corral,  there  was  no  answer. 

"The  boy's  alright,  anyway,"  said  the  young  man; 
"nothin'  in  the  woods  ever  hurts  Pete.  He's  safer 
there  than  he  would  be  here,  and  I'm  glad  he's 
gone." 

The  shepherd  did  not  reply.  He  seemed  not  to 
hear,  but  stood  as  though  fascinated  by  the  scene. 
He  still  could  not  grasp  the  truth  of  the  situation,  but 
the  beauty  of  the  hour  moved  him  deeply.  "What  a 
marvelous,  what  a  wonderful  sight!"  he  said  at  last 
in  a  low  tone.  "I  do  not  wonder  the  boy  loves  to 
roam  the  hills  a  night  like  this.  Look,  Grant !  See 
how  soft  the  moonlight  falls  on  that  patch  of  grass 
this  side  of  the  old  tree  yonder,  and  how  black  the 
shadow  is  under  that  bush,  like  the  mouth  of  a  cave, 
a  witch's  cave.  I  am  sure  there  are  ghosts  and  gob 
lins  in  there,  with  fairies  and  gnomes,  and  perhaps 
a  dragon  or  two.  And  see,  lad,  how  the  great  hills 
rise  into  the  sky.  How  grand,  how  beautiful  the 
world  is!  It  is  good  to  live,  Matt,  though  life  be 
sometimes  hard,  still — still  it  is  good  to  live." 

152 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

At  the  old  scholar's  words  and  manner,  the  moun 
taineer,  too,  forgot  for  a  moment  the  thing  that  had 
brought  him  there,  and  a  look  of  awe  and  wonder 
came  over  his  rugged  features,  as  the  shepherd,  with 
his  face  turned  upward  and  his  deep  voice  full  of 
emotion,  repeated,  "The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of 
God;  and  the  firmament  showeth  his  handiwork. 
Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  night 
showeth  knowledge." 

The  owl  left  his  place  in  the  old  tree  and  flew 
across  the  moonlit  clearing  into  the  deeper  gloom  of 
the  woods.  Inside  the  cabin  the  dog  barked,  and 
through  the  still  night,  from  down  the  valley,  where 
the  ranch  trail  crosses  the  creek,  came  the  rattle  of 
horses7  feet  on  the  rocky  floor  of  the  little  stream,  and 
the  faint  sound  of  voices.  Young  Matt  started,  and 
again  the  man  of  the  wilderness  was  master  of  the 
situation.  "They're  comin',  Dad.  We  ain't  got  no 
time  to  lose." 

Re-entering  the  cabin,  Mr.  Howitt  quieted  the  dog, 
while  his  companion  fastened  the  rear  door,  and,  in 
the  silence,  while  they  waited,  a  cricket  under  the 
corner  of  the  house  sang  his  plaintive  song.  The 
sound  of  voices  grew  louder  as  the  horses  drew  nearer. 
Brave  growled  and  would  have  barked  again,  but  was 
quieted  by  the  shepherd,  who  crouched  at  his  side, 
with  one  hand  on  the  dog's  neck. 

The  older  man  smiled  to  himself.  It  all  seemed 
153 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

to  him  so  like  a  child's  game.  He  had  watched  the 
mountaineer's  preparation  with  amused  interest,  and 
had  followed  the  young  woodsman's  directions,  even 
to  the  loaded  shotgun  in  his  hand,  as  one  would 
humor  a  hoy  in  his  play.  'The  scholar's  mind,  trained 
to  consider  the  problems  of  civilization,  and  to  recog 
nize  the  dangers  of  the  city,  refused  to  entertain 
seriously  the  thought  that  there,  in  the  peaceful 
woods,  in  the  dead  of  night,  a  company  of  ruffians 
was  seeking  to  do  him  harm. 

The  voices  had  ceased,  and  the  listeners  heard  only 
the  sound  of  the  horses'  feet,  as  the  party  passed  the 
ruined  cabin  under  the  bluff.  A  moment  or  two 
later  the  riders  stopped  in  front  of  the  ranch  house. 
Brave  growled  again,  but  was  silenced  by  the  hand 
on  his  neck. 

Young  Matt  was  at  the  window.  "I  see  them,"  he 
whispered.  "They're  gettin'  off  their  horses,  and 
tyin'  them  to  the  corral  fence."  The  smile  on  the 
shepherd's  face  vanished,  and  he  experienced  a  queer 
sensation;  it  was  as  though  something  gripped  his 
heart. 

The  other  continued  his  whispered  report; 
"They're  bunchin'  up  now  under  the  old  tree,  talkin' 
things  over.  Don't  know  what  to  make  of  the  dog 
not  bein7  around,  I  reckon.  ISFow  they're  takin'  a 
drink.  It  takes  a  lot  of  whiskey  to  help  ten  men 
jump  onto  one  old  man,  and  him  a  stranger  in  the 

154 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

woods.  Xow  Wash  is  sendin'  two  of  them  around  to 
the  back,  so  you  can't  slip  out  into  the  brash.  Sh — 
h — h,  here  comes  a  couple  more  to  try  the  front 
door."  He  slipped  quietly  across  the  room  to  the 
shepherd's  side.  The  visitors  came  softly  up  to  the 
front  door,  and  tried  it  gently.  A  moment  later  the 
rear  door  was  tried  in  the  same  way. 

"Let  Brave  speak  to  them,"  whispered  Young 
Matt;  and  the  dog,  feeling  the  restraining  hand  re 
moved,  barked  fiercely. 

Mr.  Howitt,  following  his  companion's  whispered 
instructions,  spoke  aloud,  "What's  the  matter, 
Brave?" 

A  bold  knock  at  the  front  door  caused  the  dog  to 
redouble  his  efforts,  until  his  master  commanded  him 
to  be  still.  "Who  is  there  ?"  called  the  shepherd. 

"Young  Matt's  took  powerful  bad,"  answered  a 
voice ;  "an'  they  want  you  t'  come  up  t'  th'  house,  an' 
doctor  him."  A  drunken  laugh  came  from  the  old 
tree,  followed  by  a  smothered  oath. 

The  giant  at  Mr.  Howitt's  side  growled  under  his 
breath,  "Oh,  I'm  sick,  am  I  ?  There's  them  that'll  be 
a  heap  sicker  before  mornin'.  Keep  on  a  talkin', 
Dad.  We've  got  to  make  all  the  time  we  can,  so's 
Jim  can  get  here." 

The  shepherd  called  again,  "I  do  not  recognize 
your  voice.  You  must  tell  me  who  you  are." 

Outside  there  was  a  short  consultation,  followed  by 
155 


THE  SHEPHERD  OE  THE  HILLS 

a  still  louder  knock ;  "Open  up.  Why  don't  you  open 
up  an'  see  who  we  are?"  while  from  under  the  tree 
came  a  call,  "Quit  your  foolin'  an'  bring  him  out  o' 
there,  you  fellers."  This  command  was  followed  by 
a  still  more  vigorous  hammering  at  the  door,  and  the 
threats,  "Open  up  ol'  man.  Open  up,  or  we'll  sure 
bust  her  in." 

Mr.  Howitt  whispered  to  his  companion,  "Let  me 
open  the  door  and  talk  to  them,  Grant.  Surely  they 
will  listen  to  reason." 

But  the  woodsman  returned,  "'Talk  to  a  nest  of 
rattlers!  Jim  Lane's  the  only  man  that  can  talk  to 
them  now.  We've  got  to  stand  them  off  as  long  as 
we  can."  As  he  spoke  he  raised  his  revolver,  and  was 
about  to  fire  a  shot  through  the  door,  when  a  slight 
noise  at  one  side  of  the  room  attracted  his  attention. 
He  turned  just  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  face 
as  it  was  withdrawn  from  one  of  the  little  windows. 
The  noise  at  the  door  ceased  suddenly,  and  they  heard 
the  two  men  running  to  join  the  group  under  the  tree. 

"They've  found  you  ain't  alone,"  whispered  the 
big  fellow,  springing  to  the  window  again.  And,  as 
a  wild  drunken  yell  came  from  the  visitors,  he  added, 
"Seems  like  they're  some  excited  about  it,  too. 
They're  holdin'  a  regular  pow-wow.  What  do  you 
reckon  they're  thinkin'  ?  Hope  they'll  keep  it  up  'till 
Jim — Sh — h — h.  Here  comes  another.  It's  that  or 
nery  Jim  Bowles  from  the  mouth  of  Indian  Creek." 

156 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  man  approached  the  cabin,  but  stopped  some 
distance  away  and  called,  "Hello,  ol'  man!" 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  answered  Mr.  Howitt. 

"Who's  that  there  feller  you  got  with  you  ?" 

"A  friend.'' 

"Yes!  We  all  'lowed  hit  war  a  friend,  an'  we  all 
want  t'  see  him  powerful  bad.  Can't  he  come  out  an' 
play  with  us,  Mister?"  Another  laugh  came  from 
the  group  under  the  tree. 

Young  Matt  whispered,  "Keep  him  a  talkin', 
Dad;"  and  Mr.  Howitt  called,  "He  doesn't  feel  like 
playing  tonight.  Come  back  tomorrow." 

At  this  the  spokesman  dropped  his  bantering  tone, 
"Look  a  here,  ol'  man.  We'uns  ain't  got  no  time  t' 
be  a  foolin'  here.  We  know  who  that  feller  is,  an' 
we're  a  goin'  t'  have  him.  He's  been  a  sneakin' 
'round  this  here  neighborhood  long  enough.  As  fer 
you,  Mister,  we  'low  your  health'll  be  some  better 
back  where  you  come  from;  an'  we  aim  t'  hep  you 
leave  this  neck  o'  th'  woods  right  sudden.  Open  up, 
now,  an'  turn  that  there  feller  over  t'  us;  an'  we'll 
let  you  off  easy  like.  If  you  don't,  we'll  bust  in  th' 
door,  an'  make  you  both  dance  t'  th'  same  tune. 
There  won't  be  ary  thing  under  you  t9  dance  on, 
i  nuther." 

The  old  shepherd  was  replying  kindly,  when  his 

speech  was  interrupted  by  a  pistol  shot,  and  a  com- 

I   mand    from    the  leader,  at  which  the    entire    gang 

157 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OE  THE  HILLS 

charged  toward  the  cabin,  firing  as  they  came,  and 
making  the  little  valley  hideous  with  their  drunken 
oaths  and  yells. 

Erom  his  window,  Young  Matt  coolly  emptied  his 
revolver,  but  even  as  the  crowd  faltered,  there  came 
from  their  leader  another  volley  of  oaths.  "Go  on, 
go  on,"  yelled  Wash.  "Their  guns  are  empty,  now. 
Eetch  ?em  out  'fore  they  can  load  again."  With  an 
answering  yell,  the  others  responded.  Carrying  a 
small  log  they  made  for  the  cabin  at  full  speed.  One 
crashing  blow — the  door  flew  from  its  hinges,  and  the 
opening  was  filled  with  the  drunken,  sweating,  swear 
ing  crew.  The  same  instant,  Young  Matt  dropped 
his  useless  revolver,  and,  springing  forward,  met  them 
on  the  threshold.  The  old  shepherd — who  had  not 
fired  a  shot — could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes,  as  he 
saw  the  giant  catch  the  nearest  man  by  the  shoulder 
and  waist,  and,  lifting  him  high  above  his  head,  fling 
him  with  terrific  force  full  into  the  faces  of  his  be 
wildered  companions. 

Those  who  were  not  knocked  down  by  the  strange 
weapon  scattered  in  every  direction,  crouching  low. 
Eor  a  moment  the  big  fellow  was  master  of  the  situ 
ation,  and,  standing  alone  in  the  doorway,  in  the  full 
light  of  the  moon,  was  easily  recognized. 

"Hell,  boys!  Hit's  Young  Matt  hisself!"  yelled 
the  one  who  had  raised  a  laugh,  by  saying  that  Young 


158 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Matt  was  sick  and  the  shepherd  was  wanted  to  doo 
tor. 

"Yes!  It's  me,  Bill  Simpson.  I'm  sure  ailin' 
tonight.  I  need  somebody  to  go  for  a  doctor  power 
ful  bad,"  returned  the  young  giant. 

"We  never  knowed  it  war  you,"  whined  the  other 
carefully  lengthening  the  distance  between  the  big 
man  on  the  doorstep  and  himself. 

"No,  I  reckon  not.  You  all  played  to  find  an  old 
man  alone,  and  do  for  him  like  you've  done  for 
others.  A  fine  lot  you  are,  ten  to  one,  and  him  not 
knowin'  the  woods." 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  men  slowly  retreated, 
to  gather  about  their  big  leader  under  the  tree,  two 
of  them  being  assisted  by  their  companions,  and  one 
other  limping  painfully.  Young  Matt  raised  his 
voice,  "I  know  you,  Wash  Gibbs,  and  I  know  this 
here  is  your  dirty  work.  You've  been  a  braggin' 
what  you'd  do  when  you  met  up  with  me.  I'm  here 
now.  Why  don't  you  come  up  like  a  man?  Come 
out  here  into  the  light  and  let's  you  and  me  settle  this 
thing  right  now.  You  all — "  Crack!  A  jet  of  flame 
leaped  out  of  the  shadow,  and  the  speaker  dropped 
like  a  log. 

With  a  cry  the  shepherd  ran  to  the  side  of  his 
friend ;  but  in  a  moment  the  crowd  had  again  reached 
the  cabin,  and  the  old  man  was  dragged  from  his 


159 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

fallen  companion.  With  all  his  strength,  Mr.  Howitt 
struggled  with  his  captors,  begging  them  to  let  him 
go  to  the  boy.  But  his  hands  were  bound  tightly  be 
hind  his  back,  and  when  he  still  plead  with  those  who 
held  him,  Wash  Gibbs  struck  him  full  in  the  mouth, 
a  blow  that  brought  the  blood. 

They  were  leading  the  stunned  and  helpless  old 
man  away,  when  someone,  who  was  bending  over 
Young  Matt,  exclaimed,  "You  missed  him,  Wash! 
Jest  raked  him.  He'll  be  up  in  a  minute.  An7  hell 
'11  be  to  pay  in  th'  wilderness  if  he  ain't  tied.  Better 
fix  him  quick." 

The  big  fellow  already  showed  signs  of  returning 
consciousness,  and,  by  the  time  they  had  tied  his 
arms,  he  was  able  to  struggle  to  his  feet.  For  a 
moment  he  looked  dizzily  around,  his  eyes  turning 
from  one  evil,  triumphant  face  to  another,  until  they 
rested  upon  the  bleeding  countenance  of  his  old 
friend.  The  shepherd's  eyes  smiled  back  a  message 
of  cheer,  and  the  kind  old  man  tried  to  speak,  when 
Wash  Gibbs  made  another  threatening  motion,  with 
his  clenched  fist. 

At  this,  a  cry  like  the  roar  of  a  mad  bull  came 
from  the  young  giant.  In  his  rage,  he  seemed  sud 
denly  endowed  with  almost  superhuman  strength. 
Before  a  man  of  the  startled  company  could  do  more 
than  gasp  with  astonishment,  he  had  shaken  himself 
free  from  those  who  held  him,  and,  breaking  the 

160 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

rope  with  which  he  was  bound,  as  though  it  were 
twine,  had  leaped  to  the  shepherd's  side. 

But  it  was  useless.  For  a  moment,  no  one  moved. 
Then  a  crashing  blow,  from  the  butt  of  a  rifle  in  the 
hands  of  a  man  in  the  rear  of  the  two  prisoners,  sent 
Young  Matt  once  more  to  the  ground.  When  he 
again  regained  consciousness,  he  was  so  securely 
bound,  that,  even  with  his  great  strength,  he  was 
helpless. 

Leading  their  captives  to  the  old  tree,  the  men  with 
drew  for  a  short  consultation,  and  to  refresh  them 
selves  with  another  drink.  When  they  had  finished, 
Gibbs  addressed  the  two  friends ;  "We'uns  didn't  aim 
to  hurt  you,  Young  Matt,  but  seein'  how  you're  so 
thick  with  this  here  feller,  an'  'pear  to  know  so  much 
'bout  him,  I  reckon  we  can't  hep  ourselves  nohow." 
He  turned  to  the  shepherd;  ''There's  been  too  dad 
burned  much  funny  work,  at  this  ranch,  since  you 
come,  Mister,  an'  we'uns  'low  we'll  just  give  warnin' 
that  we  don't  want  no  more  strangers  snoopin'  'round 
this  neighborhood,  an'  we  don't  aim  t'  have  'em 
neither.  We'uns  'low  we  can  take  care  o'  ourselves, 
without  ary  hep  from  th'  dad  burned  government" 

The  shepherd  tried  to  speak,  but  Gibbs,  with  an 
oath,  roared,  "Shut  up,  I  tell  you.  Shut  up.  I've 
been  a  watchin',  an'  I  know  what  I  know.  Fix  that 
there  rope,  boys,  an'  we'll  get  through,  an'  mosey 
'long  out  o'  here.  Ain't  no  use  to  palaver,  nohow." 

161 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

A  rope  was  thrown  over  a  limb  above  their  heads^ 
and  a  man  approached  the  shepherd  with  the  noose. 
Young  Matt  struggled  desperately.  With  an  evil 
grin,  Gibbs  said,  "Don't  you  worry,  sonny;  you're  a 
goin',  too."  And  at  his  signal  another  rope  was  fixed, 
and  the  noose  placed  over  the  young  man's  head. 
The  men  took  their  places,  awaiting  the  word  from 
their  leader. 

The  shepherd  spoke  softly  to  his  companion, 
"Thank  you,  my  boy."  The  giant  began  another 
desperate  struggle. 

Wash  Gibbs,  raising  his  hand,  opened  his  lips  to 
give  the  signal.  But  no  word  came.  The  brutal 
jaw  dropped.  The  ruffian's  eyes  fairly  started  from 
his  head,  while  the  men  who  held  the  ropes,  stood  as 
if  turned  to  stone,  as  a  long  wailing  cry  came  from 
the  dark  shadows  under  the  bluff.  There  was  a  mo 
ment  of  death-like  silence.  Then  another  awful, 
sobbing  groan,  rising  into  a  blood  curdling  scream 
came  from  down  the  road,  and,  from  the  direction  oi 
the  ruined  cabin,  advanced  a  ghostly  figure.  Through 
the  deep  shadows  and  the  misty  light,  it  seemed  to 
float  toward  them,  moaning  and  sobbing  as  it  came. 

A  shuddering  gasp  of  horror  burst  from  the  fright* 
ened  crew  under  the  tree.  Then,  at  a  louder  wail 
from  the  approaching  apparition,  they  broke  and  ran. 
Like  wild  men  they  leaped  for  their  horses, 


162 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

flinging  themselves  into  their  saddles,  fled  in  every 
direction. 

Young  Matt  and  the  shepherd  sank  upon  the 
ground  in  helpless  amazement. 

As  the  outlaws  fled,  the  spectre  paused.  Then  it 
started  onward  toward  the  two  men.  Again  it  hesi- 
;ated.  For  a  moment  it  remained  motionless,  then 
turned  and  vanished,  just  as  Jim  Lane  came  flying 
out  of  the  timber,  into  the  bright  light  of  the  little 
clearing. 


CHAPTEK  XVIII. 
LEARNING  TO  BE  A  LADY. 

jHE  books  sent  for  by  Mr.  Howitt  came  a 
few    days    after    the    adventure    at    the 
ranch,  and  Sammy,  with  all  the  intensity 
of  her  nature,  plunged  at  once  into  the 
work  mapped  out  for  her  by  the  shepherd. 

All  through  the  long  summer  and  autumn,  the  girl 
spent  hours  with  her  teacher  out  on  the  hillside. 
Seated  on  some  rocky  bench,  or  reclining  on  the 
grassy  slope,  she  would  recite  the  lessons  he  gave  her, 
or  listen  to  him,  as  he  read  aloud  from  character 
forming  books,  pausing  now  and  then  to  slip  in  some 
comment  to  make  the  teaching  clear,  or  to  answer 
her  eager  questions. 

At  other  times,  while  they  followed  the  sheep, 
leisurely,  from  one  feeding  ground  to  another,  he 
provoked  her  to  talk  of  the  things  they  were  reading, 
and,  while  he  thus  led  her  to  think,  he  as  carefully 
guarded  her  speech  and  language. 

At  first  they  took  the  old  familiar  path  of  early 
intellectual  training,  but,  little  by  little,  he  taught  her 
to  find  the  way  for  herself.  Always  as  she  advanced, 
he  encouraged  her  to  look  for  the  life  that  is  more 

164 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

than  meat,  and  always,  while  they  read  and  talked 
together,  there  was  opened  before  them  the  great 
book  wherein  God  has  written,  in  the  language  of 
mountain,  and  tree,  and  sky,  and  flower,  and  brook, 
the  things  that  make  truly  wise  those  who  pause  to 
read. 

From  her  mother,  and  from  her  own  free  life  in 
the  hills,  Sammy  had  a  body  beautiful  with  the  grace 
and  strength  of  perfect  physical  womanhood.  With 
this,  she  had  inherited  from  many  generations  of 
gentlefolk  a  mind  and  spirit  susceptible  of  the  high 
est  culture.  Unspoiled  by  the  hot-house,  forcing 
process,  that  so  often  leaves  the  intellectual  powers 
jaded  and  weak,  before  they  have  fully  developed, 
and  free  from  the  atmosphere  of  falsehood  and  sur 
face  culture,  in  which  so  many  souls  struggle  for 
their  very  existence,  the  girl  took  what  her  teacher 
had  to  offer  and  made  it  her  own.  With  a  mental 
appetite  uninjured  by  tit-bits  and  dainties,  she  di 
gested  the  strong  food,  and  asked  eagerly  for  more. 

Her  progress  was  marvelous,  and  the  old  scholar 
often  had  cause  to  wonder  at  the  quickness  with  which 
his  pupil's  clear  mind  grasped  the  truths  he  showed 
her.  Often  before  he  could  finish  speaking,  a  bright 
nod,  or  word,  showed  that  she  had  caught  the  purpose 
of  his  speech,  while  that  wide  eager  look,  and  the 
question  that  followed,  revealed  her  readiness  to  go 
on.  It  was  as  though  many  of  the  things  he  sought 

165 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

to  teach  her  slept  already  in  her  brain,  and  needed 
only  a  touch  to  arouse  them  to  vigorous  life. 

In  time,  the  girl's  very  clothing,  and  even  her 
manner  of  dressing  her  hair,  came  to  reveal  the 
development  and  transformation  of  her  inner  self; 
not  that  she  dressed  more  expensively;  she  could  not 
do  that;  but  in  the  selection  of  materials,  and  in 
the  many  subtle  touches  that  give  distinction  even 
to  the  plainest  apparel,  she  showed  her  awakening. 
To  help  her  in  this,  there  was  Aunt  Mollie  and  a  good 
ladies'  magazine,  which  came  to  her  regularly, 
through  the  kindness  of  her  teacher. 

Sammy's  father,  too,  came  unconsciously  under  the 
shepherd's  influence.  As  his  daughter  grew,  the  man 
responded  to  the  change  in  her,  as  he  always  re 
sponded  to  her  every  thought  and  mood.  He  talked 
often  now  of  the  old  home  in  the  south  land,  anc 
sometimes  fell  into  the  speech  of  other  days,  drop* 
ping,  for  a  moment,  the  rougher  expressions  of  his 
associates.  But  all  this  was  to  Sammy  alone.  To  the 
world,  there  was  no  change  in  Jim,  and  he  still  went 
on  his  long  rides  with  Wash  Gibbs.  By  fall,  the 
place  was  fixed  up  a  bit;  the  fence  was  rebuilt,  the 
yard  trimmed,  and  another  room  added  to  the  cabin. 

So  the  days  slipped  away  over  the  wood  fringed 
ridges.  The  soft  green  of  tree,  and  of  bush,  and 
grassy  slope  changed  to  brilliant  gold,  and  crimson, 
and  russet  brown,  while  the  gray  blue  haze  that  hangs 

166 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

always  over  the  hollows  took  on  a  purple  tone.  Then 
in  turn  this  purple  changed  to  a  deeper,  colder  blue, 
when  the  leaves  had  fallen,  and  the  trees  showed 
naked  against  the  winter  sky. 

With  the  cold  weather,  the  lessons  were  continued 
in  the  Lane  cabin  on  the  southern  slope  of  Dewey. 
All  day,  while  the  shepherd  was  busy  at  the  ranch, 
Sammy  pored  over  her  books;  and  every  evening 
the  old  scholar  climbed  the  hill  to  direct  the  work  of 
his  pupil,  with  long  Jim  sitting,  silent  and  grim, 
by  the  fireside,  listening  to  the  talk,  and  seeing  who 
knows  what  visions  of  the  long  ago  in  the  dancing 
flame. 

And  so  the  winter  passed,  and  the  spring  came 
again;  came,  with  its  soft  beauty  of  tender  green; 
its  wealth  of  blossoms,  and  sweet  fragrance  of  grow 
ing  things.  Then  came  the  summer;  that  terrible 
summer,  when  all  the  promises  of  spring  were 
broken;  when  no  rain  fell  for  weary  months,  and 
the  settlers,  in  the  total  failure  of  their  crops,  faced 
certain  ruin. 


ier 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 
THE  DROUGHT. 

began  to  be  serious  by  the  time  corn  was 
waist  high.  When  the  growing  grain  lost 
its  rich  color  and  the  long  blades  rustled 
dryly  in  the  hot  air,  the  settlers  looked 
anxiously  for  signs  of  coming  rain.  The  one  topic 
of  conversation  at  the  mill  was  the  condition  of  the 
crops.  The  stories  were  all  of  past  drought  or  tales 
of  hardship  and  want. 

The  moon  changed  and  still  the  same  hot  dry  sky, 
with  only  now  and  then  a  shred  of  cloud  floating 
lazily  across  the  blue.  The  grass  in  the  glades  grew 
parched  and  harsh;  the  trees  rattled  their  shriveled 
leaves ;  creek  beds  lay  glaring  white  and  dusty  in  the 
sun ;  and  all  the  wild  things  in  the  woods  sought  the 
distant  river  bottom.  In  the  Mutton  Hollow  neigh 
borhood,  only  the  spring  below  the  Matthews  place 
held  water ;  and  all  day  the  stock  on  the  range,  crowd 
ing  around  the  little  pool,  tramped  out  the  narrow 
fringe  of  green  grass  about  its  edge,  and  churned  its 
bright  life  into  mud  in  their  struggle. 

Fall  came  and  there  was  no  relief.  Crops  were  a 
total  failure.  Many  people  were  without  means  to 

168 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

buy  food  for  themselves  and  their  stock  for  the  coin 
ing  winter  and  the  months  until  another  crop  could 
be  grown  and  harvested.  Family  after  family  loaded 
their  few  household  goods  into  the  big  covered  wag 
ons,  and,  deserting  their  homes,  set  out  to  seek  relief 
in  more  fortunate  or  more  wealthy  portions  of  the 
country. 

The  day  came  at  last  when  Sammy  found  the  shep 
herd  in  the  little  grove,  near  the  deer  lick,  and  told 
him  that  she  and  her  father  were  going  to  move. 

"Father  says  there  is  nothing  else  to  do.  Even  if 
we  could  squeeze  through  the  winter,  we  couldn't 
hold  out  until  he  could  make  another  crop." 

Throwing  herself  on  the  ground,  she  picked  a  big 
yellow  daisy  from  a  cluster,  that,  finding  a  little 
moisture  oozing  from  a  dirt-filled  crevice  of  the  rock, 
had  managed  to  live,  and  began  pulling  it  to  pieces. 

In  silence  the  old  man  watched  her.  He  had  not 
before  realized  how  much  the  companionship  of  this 
girl  was  to  him.  To  the  refined  and  cultivated 
scholar,  whose  lot  had  been  cast  so  strangely  with  the 
rude  people  of  the  mountain  wilderness,  the  compan 
ionship  of  such  a  spirit  and  mind  was  a  necessity. 
Unconsciously  Sammy  had  supplied  the  one  thing 
lacking,  and  by  her  demands  upon  his  thought  had 
kept  the  shepherd  from  mental  stagnation  and  morbid 
brooding.  Day  after  day  she  had  grown  into  his 
life — his  intellectual  and  spiritual  child,  and  though 

169 


THE  SIIEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

she  had  dropped  the  rude  speech  of  the  native,  she 
persisted  still  in  calling  him  by  his  backwoods  title, 
"Dad."  But  the  little  word  had  come  to  hold  a  new 
meaning  for  them  both.  He  saw  now,  all  at  once, 
what  he  would  lose  when  she  went  away. 

One  by  one,  the  petals  from  the  big  daisy  fell  from 
the  girl's  hand,  dull  splashes  of  gold  against  her  dress 
and  on  the  grass. 

"Where  will  you  go  ?"  he  asked  at  last. 

Sammy  shook  her  head  without  looking  up ;  "Don't 
know;  anywhere  that  Daddy  can  earn  a  livin' — I 
mean  living — for  us." 

"And  when  do  you  start  ?" 

"Pretty  soon  now;  there  ain't  nothin' — there  is 
nothing  to  stay  for  now.  Father  told  me  when  he 
went  away  day  before  yesterday  that  we  would  go  as 
soon  as  he  returned.  He  promised  to  be  home  some 
time  this  evening.  I — I  couldn't  tell  you  before, 
Dad,  but  I  guess  you  knew." 

The  shepherd  did  know.  For  weeks  they  had  both 
avoided  the  subject. 

Sammy  continued ;  "I — I've  just  been  over  to  the 
Matthews  place.  Uncle  Matt  has  been  gone  three 
days  now.  I  guess  you  know  about  that,  too.  Aunt 
Mollie  told  me  all  about  it.  Oh,  I  wish,  I  wish  I 
could  help  them."  She  reached  for  another  daisy 
and  two  big  tears  rolled  from  under  the  long  lashes 
to  fall  with  the  golden  petals.  "We'll  come  back  in 

170 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  spring  when  it's  time  to  plant  again,  but  what  :  E 
you're  not  here?" 

Her  teacher  could  not  answer  for  a  time;  then 
he  said,  in  an  odd,  hesitating  way,  "Have  you  heard 
from  Ollie  lately  ?" 

The  girl  raised  her  head,  her  quick,  rare  instinct 
divining  his  unspoken  thought,  and  something  she 
saw  in  her  old  friend's  face  brought  just  a  hint  of  a 
smile  to  her  own  tearful  eyes.  She  knew  him  so  well. 
"You  don't  mean  that,  Dad,"  she  said.  "We  just 
couldn't  do  that.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  yesterday 
offering  us  money,  but  you  know  we  could  not  accept 
it  from  him."  And  there  the  subject  was  dropped. 

They  spent  the  afternoon  together,  and  in  the  even 
ing,  at  Sammy's  Lookout  on  the  shoulder  of  Dewey, 
she  bade  him  good-night,  and  left  him  alone  with  his 
flocks  in  the  soft  twilight. 

That  same  evening  Mr.  Matthews  returned  from 
his  trip  to  the  settlement. 


171 


CHAPTEK  XX. 
THE  SHEPHERD  WRITES  A  LETTER. 

purchase  the  sheep  and  the  ranch  in 
the  Hollow,  Mr.  Matthews  placed  a 
heavy  mortgage  not  only  upon  the  ranch 
land  but  upon  the  homestead  as  well.  In 
the  loss  of  his  stock  the  woodsman  would  lose  all  he 
had  won  in  years  of  toil  from  the  mountain  wilder 
ness. 

When  the  total  failure  of  the  crops  became  a  cer 
tainty,  and  it  was  clear  that  the  country  could  not 
produce  enough  feed  to  carry  his  flock  througt  the 
winter  until  the  spring  grass,  Mr.  Matthews  went  to 
the  settlement  hoping  to  get  help  from  the  bank 
there,  where  he  was  known. 

He  found  the  little  town  in  confusion  and  the 
doors  of  the  bank  closed.  The  night  before  a  band 
of  men  had  entered  the  building,  and,  forcing  the 
safe,  had  escaped  to  the  mountains  with  their  booty. 
Old  Matt's  interview  with  the  bank  official  was 
brief.  "It  is  simply  impossible,  Mr.  Matthews,"  said 
the  man ;  "as  it  is,  we  shall  do  well  to  keep  our  own 
heads  above  water." 

Then  the  mountaineer  had  come  the  long  way 
home.  As  he  rode  slowly  up  the  last  hill,  the  giant 

172 


THE  SHEPHERD  OE  THE  HILLS 

form  stooped  with  a  weariness  unusual,  and  the  rug 
ged  face  looked  so  worn  and  hopelessly  sad,  that  Aunt 
Mollie,  who  was  waiting  at  the  gate,  did  not  need 
words  to  tell  her  of  his  failure.  The  old  man  got 
stiffly  down  from  his  horse,  and  when  he  had  removed 
saddle  and  bridle,  and  had  turned  the  animal  into  the 
lot,  the  two  walked  toward  the  house.  But  they  did 
not  enter  the  building.  Without  a  word  they  turned 
aside  from  the  steps  and  followed  the  little  path  to  the 
graves  in  the  rude  enclosure  beneath  the  pines,  where 
the  sunshine  fell  only  in  patches  here  and  there. 

That  night  after  supper  Mr.  Matthews  went  down 
into  the  Hollow  to  see  the  shepherd.  "It's  goin'  to 
be  mighty  hard  on  Mollie  and  me  a  leavin'  the  old 
place  up  yonder,"  said  the  big  man,  when  he  had  told 
of  his  unsuccessful  trip.  "It  won't  matter  so  much 
to  the  boy,  'cause  he's  young  yet,  but  we've  worked 
hard,  Mr.  Howitt,  for  that  home — Mollie  and  me  has. 
She's  up  there  now  a  sittin'  on  the  porch  and  a  livin' 
it  all  over  again,  like  she  does  when  there  ain't  no  one 
around,  with  her  face  turned  toward  them  pines  west 
of  the  house.  It's  mighty  nigh  a  breakin'  her  heart 
just  to  think  of  leavin',  but  she'll  hide  it  all  from  me 
when  I  go  up  there,  thinkin'  not  to  worry  me — as  if 
I  didn't  know.  An'  it's  goin'  to  be  mighty  hard  to 
part  with  you,  too,  Mr.  Howitt.  I  don't  reckon  you'll 
ever  know,  sir,  how  much  you  done  for  us;  for  me 
most  of  all." 

173 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  shepherd  made  as  if  to  interrupt,  but  the  big 
man  continued;  "Don't  you  suppose  we  can  see,  sir, 
how  you've  made  over  the  whole  neighborhood.  There 
ain't  a  family  for  ten  miles  that  don't  come  to  you 
when  they're  in  trouble.  An'  there's  Sammy  Lane 
a  readin',  an'  talkin'  just  about  the  same  as  you  do 
yourself,  fit  to  hold  up  her  end  with  anybody  what's 
got  education,  and  Jim  himself's  changed  something 
wonderful.  Same  old  Jim  in  lots  of  ways,  but  some 
thing  more,  somehow,  though  I  can't  tell  it.  Then 
there's  my  boy,  Grant.  I  know  right  well  what  he'd 
been  if  it  wasn't  for  you  to  show  him  what  the  best 
kind  of  a  man's  like.  He'd  a  sure  never  knowed  it 
from  me.  I  don't  mean  as  he'd  a  ever  been  a  bad 
man  like  Wash  Gibbs,  or  a  no  account  triflin'  one, 
like  them  Thompsons,  but  he  couldn't  never  a  been 
what  he  is  now,  through  and  through,  if  he  hadn't  a 
known  you.  There's  a  heap  more,  too,  all  over  the 
country  that  you've  talked  to  a  Sunday,  when  the 
parson  wasn't  here.  As  for  me,  you — you  sure  been 
a  God's  blessin'  to  me  and  Mollie,  Mr.  Howitt." 

Again  the  shepherd  moved  uneasily,  as  if  to  pro 
test,  but  his  big  friend  made  a  gesture  of  silence; 
"Let  me  say  it  while  I  got  a  chance,  Dad."  And  the 
other  bowed  his  head  while  Old  Matt  continued ;  "I 
can't  tell  how  it  is,  an'  I  don't  reckon  you'd  under 
stand  any  way,  but  scayin'  as  you  have  after  our  talk 
that  first  night  you  come,  an'  livin'  down  here  on  this 

174 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

spot  alone,  after  what  you  know,  it's — it's  just  like  I 
was  a  little  kid,  an7  you  was  a  standin'  big  and  strong 
like  between  me  an'  a  great  blackness  that  was  some- 
thin'  awful.  I  reckon  it  looks  foolish,  me  a  talkin' 
this  way.  Maybe  it's  because  I'm  gettin'  old,  but 
any-how  I  vranted  you  to  know." 

The  shepherd  raised  his  head  and  his  face  was 
aglow  with  a  glad  triumphant  light,  while  his  deep 
voice  was  full  of  meaning,  as  he  said  gently,  "It  has 
been  more  to  me,  too,  than  you  think,  Mr.  Matthews. 
I  ought  to  tell  you — I — I  will  tell  you — "  he  checked 
himself  and  added,  "some  day."  Then  he  changed 
the  topic  quickly. 

"Are  you  sure  there  is  no  one  who  can  help  you 
over  this  hard  time  ?  Is  there  no  way  ?" 

The  mountaineer  shook  his  head.  "I've  gone  over 
it  all  again  an'  again.  Williams  at  the  bank  is  the 
only  man  I  know  who  had  the  money,  an'  he's  done 
for  now  by  this  robbery.  You  see  I  can't  go  to  stran 
gers,  Dad ;  I  ain't  got  nothin'  left  for  security." 

"But,  could  you  not  sell  the  sheep  for  enough  to 
save  the  homestead  ?" 

"Who  could  buy '?  or  who  would  buy,  if  they  could, 
in  this  country,  without  a  bit  of  feed  ?  And  then  look 
at  'em,  they're  so  poor  an'  weak,  now,  they  couldn't 
stand  the  drivin'  to  the  shippin'  place.  They'd  die 
all  along  the  road.  They're  just  skin  an'  bones,  Dad ; 
ain't  no  butcher  would  pay  freight  on  'em,  even." 

175 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HIL1S 

Mr.  Howitt  sat  with  knitted  brow,  staring  into  the 
shadows.  Then  he  said  slowly,  "There  is  that  old 
mine.  If  this  man  Dewey  were  only  here,  do  you 
suppose —  ?" 

Again  the  mountaineer  shook  his  head.  "Colonel 
Dewey  would  be  a  mighty  old  man  now,  Dad,  even 
if  he  were  livin.'  'Tain't  likely  he'll  ever  come  back, 
nor  'tain't  likely  the  mine  will  ever  be  found  without 
him.  I  studied  all  that  out  on  the  way  home." 

As  he  finished  speaking,  he  rose  to  go,  and  the  dog, 
springing  up,  dashed  out  of  the  cabin  and  across  the 
clearing  toward  the  bluff  by  the  corral,  barking 
furiously. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  "A  rabbit," 
said  Mr.  Howitt.  But  they  both  knew  that  the  well 
trained  shepherd  dog  never  tracked  a  rabbit,  and  Old 
Matt's  face  was  white  when  he  mounted  to  ride  away 
up  the  trail. 

Long  the  shepherd  stood  in  the  doorway  looking 
out  into  the  night,  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  wil 
derness.  In  his  life  in  the  hills  he  had  found  a  little 
brightness,  while  in  the  old  mountaineer's  words  that 
evening,  he  had  glimpsed  a  future  happiness,  of 
which  he  had  scarcely  dared  to  dream.  With  the 
single  exception  of  that  one  wild  night,  his  life  had 
been  an  unbroken  calm.  Now  he  was  to  leave  it  all 
And  for  what  ? 


176 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  seemed  to  hear  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  world 
beyond  the  ridges,  as  one  in  a  quiet  harbor  hears  out 
side  the  thunder  of  the  stormy  sea.  He  shuddered. 
The  gloom  and  mystery  of  it  all  crept  into  his  heart. 
He  was  so  alone.  But  it  was  not  the  wilderness  that 
made  him  shudder.  It  was  the  thought  of  the  great, 
mad,  cruel  world  that  raged  beyond  the  hills;  that, 
and  something  else. 

The  dog  growled  again  and  faced  threateningly 
toward  the  cliff.  "What  is  it,  Brave  ?"  The  only  an 
swer  was  an  uneasy  whine  as  the  animal  crouched 
close  to  the  man's  feet.  The  shepherd  peered  into  the 
darkness  in  the  direction  of  the  ruined  cabin.  "God," 
he  whispered,  "how  can  I  leave  this  place  ?" 

He  turned  back  into  the  house,  closed  and  barred 
the  door.  With  the  manner  of  one  making  a  resolu 
tion  after  a  hard  struggle,  he  took  writing  material 
from  the  top  shelf  of  the  cupboard,  and,  seating  him 
self  at  the  table,  began  to  write.  The  hours  slipped 
by,  and  page  after  page,  closely  written,  came  from 
the  shepherd's  pen,  while,  as  he  wrote,  the  man's  face 
grew  worn  and  haggard.  It  was  as  though  he  lifted 
again  the  burden  he  had  learned  to  lay  aside.  At  last 
it  was  finished.  Placing  the  sheets  in  an  envelope, 
he  wrote  the  address  with  trembling  hand. 

While  Mr.  Howitt  was  writing  his  letter  at  the 
ranch,  and  Old  Matt  was  tossing  sleeplessly  on  his 


177 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

bed  in  the  big  log  house,  a  horseman  rode  slowly  down 
from  the  Compton  Ridge  road.  Stopping  at  the  creek 
to  water,  he  pushed  on  up  the  mountain  toward  the 
Lane  cabin.  The  horse  walked  with  low  hung  head 
and  lagging  feet ;  the  man  slouched  half  asleep  in  the 
saddle.  It  was  Jim  Lane. 


CHAPTER  XXL 
GOD'S  GOLD. 

p-'v-""V77IIE  troubled  night  passed.  The  shepherd 
;  '  \Y  arose  to  see  the  sky  above  the  eastern  rim 
of  the  Hollow  glowing  with  the  first  soft 
light  of  a  new  day.  Away  over  Comp- 
ton  Ridge  one  last,  pale  star  hung,  caught  in  the  up 
per  branches  of  a  dead  pine.  Not  a  leaf  of  the  forest 
stirred.  In  awe  the  man  watched  the  miracle  of  the 
morning,  as  the  glowing  colors  touched  cloud  after 
cloud,  until  the  whole  sky  was  aflame,  and  the  star 
was  gone. 

Again  he  seemed  to  hear,  faint  and  far  away,  the 
rear  and  surge  of  the  troubled  sea.  With  face  up 
lifted,  he  cried  aloud,  "0  God,  my  Father,  I  ask  thee 
not  for  the  things  that  men  deem  great.  I  covet  not 
wealth,  nor  honor,  nor  ease;  only  peace;  only  that 
I  may  live  free  from  those  who  do  not  understand; 
only  that  I  may  in  some  measure  make  atonement; 
that  I  may  win  pardon.  Oh,  drive  me  not  from  this 
haven  into  the  world  again!" 

"Again,  again/'  came  back  from  the  cliff  on  the 
other  side  of  the  clearing,  and,  as  the  echo  died  away 
in  the  silent  woods,  a  bush  on  top  of  the  bluff  stirred 

179 


**"  THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

in  the  breathless  air;  stirred,  and  was  still  again. 
Somewhere  up  on  Dewey  a  crow  croaked  hoarsely  to 
his  mate;  a  cow  on  the  range  bawled  loudly  and  the 
sheep  in  the  corral  chorused  in  answer. 

Re-entering  the  cabin,  the  old  man  quickly  built 
a  fire,  then,  taking  the  bucket,  went  to  the  spring  for 
water.  He  must  prepare  his  breakfast.  Coming 
back  with  the  brimming  pail,  he  placed  it  on  the 
bench  and  was  turning  to  the  cupboard,  when  he 
noticed  on  the  table  a  small  oblong  package.  "Mr. 
Matthews  must  have  left  it  last  night,"  he  thought. 
"Strange  that  I  did  not  see  it  before." 

Picking  up  the  package  he  found  that  it  was  quite 
heavy,  and,  to  his  amazement,  saw  that  it  was  ad 
dressed  to  himself,  in  a  strange,  cramped  printing, 
such  letters  as  a  child  would  make.  He  ripped  open 
the  covering  and  read  in  the  same  crude  writing: 
"This  stuff  is  for  you  to  give  to  the  Matthews's  and 
Jim  Lane,  but  don't  tell  anyone  where  you  got  it. 
And  don't  try  to  find  out  where  it  come  from  either, 
or  you'll  wish  you  hadn't.  You  needn't  be  afraid. 
It's  good  money  alright."  The  package  contained 
gold  pieces  of  various  denominations. 

With  a  low  exclamation,  the  shepherd  let  the  par 
cel  slip,  and  the  money  fell  in  a  shining  heap  on  the 
floor.  He  stood  as  in  a  dream,  looking  from  the  gold 
to  the  letter  in  his  hand.  Then,  going  to  the  door,  he 


180 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

gazed  long  and  searchingly  in  every  direction.  Xoth- 
ing  unusual  met  his  eye.  Turning  back  into  the  cabin 
again,  he  caught  up  the  letter  he  had  written,  and 
stepped  to  the  fireplace,  an  expression  of  relief  upon 
his  face.  But  with  his  hand  outstretched  toward  the 
flames,  he  paused,  the  letter  still  in  his  grasp,  while 
the  expression  of  relief  gave  way  to  a  look  of  fear. 

"The  bank,"  he  muttered;  "the  robbery."  The 
shining  pieces  on  the  floor  seemed  to  glisten  mock 
ingly  ;  a]STo,  no,  no/'  said  the  man.  "'Better  the  other 
way,  and  yet — "  He  read  the  letter  again.  "It's 
good  money,  alright ;  you  needn't  be  afraid." 

In  his  quandary,  he  heard  a  step  without  and 
looking  up  saw  Pete  in  the  open  door. 

The  boy's  sensitive  face  was  aglow,  as  he  said; 
"Pete's  glad  this  morning;  Pete  saw  the  sky.  Did 
Dad  see  the  sky  ?" 

Mr.  Howitt  nodded ;  then,  moved  by  a  sudden  im 
pulse,  pointed  to  the  money,  and  said,  "Does  Pete 
see  this  ?  It's  gold,  all  gold." 

The  boy  drew  near  with  curious  eyes.  "Dad 
doesn't  know  where  it  came  from,"  continued  the 
shepherd.  "Does  Pete  know  ?" 

The  youth  gave  a  low  laugh  of  delight;  "Course 
Pete  knows.  Pete  went  up  on  Dewey  this  morning; 
'way  up  to  the  old  signal  tree,  and  course  he  took  me 
with  him.  The  sky  was  all  soft  and  silvery,  an'  the 


181 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

clouds  was  full,  plumb  full  of  gold,  like  that  there." 
He  pointed  to  the  yellow  coins  on  the  floor.  "Didn't 
Dad  see  ?  Some  of  it  must  o'  spilled  out." 

"Ah,  yes,  that  was  God's  gold,"  said  the  older  man 
softly. 

The  lad  touched  his  friend  on  the  arm,  and  with 
the  other  hand  again  pointed  to  the  glittering  heap 
'on  the  floor.  "Pete  says  that  there's  God's  gold  too, 
iand  Pete  he  knows." 

The  man  started  and  looked  at  the  boy  in  wonder ; 
^But  why,  why  should  it  come  to  me  at  such  a  time 
as  this  ?"  he  muttered. 

"  'Cause  you're  the  Shepherd  of  Mutton  Hollow, 
Pete  says.  Don't  be  scared,  Dad.  Pete  knows.  It's 
sure  God's  gold." 

The  shepherd  turned  to  the  fireplace  and  dropped 
the  letter  he  had  written  upon  the  leaping  flames. 


CHAPTEE  XXII. 
A  LETTER  FROM  OLLIE  STEWART. 

[HE  postoffice  at  the  Forks  occupied  a  com 
manding  position  in  the  northeast  corner 
of  Uncle  Ike's  cabin,  covering  an  area 
not  less  than  four  feet  square. 
The  fittings  were  in  excellent  taste,  and  the  equip 
ment  fully  adequate  to  the  needs  of  the  service:  an 
old  table,  on  legs  somewhat  rickety;  upon  the  table, 
a  rude  box,  set  on  end  and  divided  roughly  into 
eight  pigeon  holes,  duly  numbered;  in  the  table,  a 
drawer,  filled  a  little  with  stamps  and  stationery, 
filled  mostly  with  scraps  of  leaf  tobacco,  and  an  odd 
company  of  veteran  cob  pipes,  now  on  the  retired 
list,  or  home  on  furlough;  before  the  table,  a  little 
old  chair,  wrought  in  some  fearful  and  wonderful 
fashion  from  hickory  sticks  from  which  the  bark  had 
not  been  removed. 

With  every  change  of  the  weather,  this  chair, 
through  some  unknown  but  powerful  influence, 
changed  its  shape,  thus  becoming  in  its  own  way  a 
sort  of  government  weather  bureau.  And  if  in  all 
this  "land  of  the  free  and  home  of  the  brave"  there 
be  a  single  throne,  it  must  be  this  same  curiously 
changeable  chair.  In  spite  of,  or  perhaps  because  of, 

183 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

its  strange  powers,  that  weird  piece  of  furniture 
managed  to  make  itself  so  felt  that  it  was  religiously 
avoided  by  every  native  who  called  at  the  Forks. 
Not  the  wildest  "Hill-Billy"  of  them  all  dared  to 
occupy  for  a  moment  this  seat  of  Uncle  Sam's  repre 
sentative.  Here  Uncle  Ike  reigned  supreme  ovei  his 
four  feet  square  of  government  property.  And  you 
may  be  very  sure  that  the  mighty  mysterious  thing 
known  as  the  "gov'ment"  lost  none  of  its  might,  and 
nothing  of  its  mystery,  at  the  hands  of  its  worthy 
official. 

Uncle  Ike  left  the  group  in  front  of  the  cabin,  and, 
hurriedly  entering  the  office,  seated  himself  upon  his 
throne.  A  tall,  thin,  slow  moving  mule,  brought  to 
before  a  certain  tree  with  the  grace  and  dignity  of  an 
ocean  liner  coming  into  her  slip.  Zeke  Wheeler  dis 
mounted,  and,  with  the  saddle  mail  pouch  over  his 
arm,  stalked  solemnly  across  the  yard  and  into  the 
house,  his  spurs  clinking  on  the  gravel  and  rattling 
over  the  floor.  Following  the  mail  carrier,  the  group 
of  mountaineers  entered,  and,  with  Uncle  Ike's  entire 
family,  took  their  places  at  a  respectful  distance  from 
the  holy  place  of  mystery  and  might,  in  the  north  east 
corner  of  the  room. 

The  postmaster,  with  a  key  attached  by  a  small 
chain  to  one  corner  of  the  table,  unlocked  the  flat 
pouch  and  drew  forth  the  contents — five  papers,  three 
letters  and  one  postal  card. 

184 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  empty  pouch  was  kicked  contemptuously  be 
neath  the  table.  The  papers  were  tossed  to  one  side. 
All  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  little  bundle  of  first  class 
matter.  In  a  breathless  silence  the  official  cut  the 
string.  The  silence  was  broken.  "Ba  thundas! 
Mary  Liz  Jolly'll  sure  be  glad  t'  git  that  there  letter. 
Her  man's  been  gone  nigh  onto  three  months  now,  an' 
ain't  wrote  but  once.  That  was  when  he  was  in 
Mayville.  I  see  he's  down  in  th'  nation  now  at  Au 
burn,  sendin'  Mary  Liz  some  money,  I  reckon.  Ba 
thundas,  it's  'bout  time!  What!" 

"James  Creelman,  E-S-Q.,  Wai,  dad  burn  me. 
Jim  done  wrote  t'  that  there  house  in  Chicago  more'n 
three  weeks  ago,  'bout  a  watch  they're  a  sellin'  fer 
fo'  dollars.  Ba  thundas!  They'd  sure  answer  me 
quicker'n  that,  er  they'd  hear  turkey.  What!  I 
done  tole  Jim  it  was  only  a  blamed  oF  fo7  dollar 
house  anyhow." 

At  this  many  nods  and  glances  were  exchanged 
by  the  group  in  silent  admiration  of  the  "gov'ment," 
and  one  mountaineer,  bold  even  to  recklessness,  re 
marked,  "Jim  must  have  a  heap  o'  money  t'  be  a 
buyin'  four  dollar  watches.  Must  er  sold  that  gray 
mule  o'  hisn ;  hit'd  fetch  'bout  that  much,  I  reckon." 

"Much  you  know  'bout  it,  Buck  Boswell.  Let  me 
tell  you,  Jim  he  works,  he  does.  He's  the  workingest 
man  in  this  here  county,  ba  thundas !  What !  Jim  he 
don't  sit  'round  like  you  fellers  down  on  th'  creek  an' 

185 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

wait  fer  pawpaws  to  git  ripe,  so  he  can  git  a  square 
meal,  ba  thundas !"  The  bold  mountaineer  wilted. 

Uncle  Ike  proceeded  with  the  business  of  his  office. 
"Here's  Sallie  Rhodes  done  writ  her  maw  a  card 
from  th'  Corners.  Sallie's  been  a  visitin'  her  paw's 
folks.  Says  she'll  be  home  on  th'  hack  next  mail,  an' 
wants  her  maw  t'  meet  her  here.  You  can  take  th' 
hack  next  time,  Zeke.  An'  ba  thundas!  Here's 
'nother  letter  from  that  dummed  Ollie  Stewart. 
Sammy  ain't  been  over  yet  after  th'  last  one  he  wrote. 
Ba  thundas!  If  it  weren't  for  them  blamed  gov'- 
ment  inspectors,  I'd  sure  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel. 
What!  I'd  everlastin'ly  seva'  th'  connections  be 
tween  that  gentleman  an'  these  here  Ozarks.  Dad 
burn  me,  if  I  wouldn't.  He'd  better  take  one  o'  them 
new  f angled  women  in  th'  city,  where  he's  gone  to, 
an'  not  come  back  here  for  one  o'  our  girls.  I  don't 
believe  Sammy'd  care  much,  nohow,  ba  thundas! 
What!"  The  official  tossed  the  letter  into  a  pigeon 
hole  beside  its  neglected  mate,  with  a  gesture  that 
fully  expressed  the  opinion  of  the  entire  community, 
regarding  Mr.  Stewart  and  his  intentions  toward 
Miss  Lane. 

Sammy  got  the  letters  the  next  day,  and  read  them 
over  and  over,  as  she  rode  slowly  through  the  sweet 
smelling  woods.  The  last  one  told  her  that  Ollie 
was  coming  home  on  a  visit.  "Thursday,  that's  the 


186 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

day  after  tomorrow,"  she  said  aloud.  Then  she  read 
the  letter  again. 

It  was  a  very  different  letter  from  those  Ollie  had 
written  when  first  he  left  the  woods.  Most  of  all  it 
was  different  in  that  indefinable  something  by  which 
a  man  reveals  his  place  in  life  in  the  letters  he  writes, 
no  less  than  in  the  words  he  speaks,  or  the  clothing 
he  wears.  As  Sammy  rode  slowly  through  the  pinery 
and  down  the  narrow  Fall  Creek  valley,  she  was 
thinking  of  these  things,  thinking  of  these  things 
seriously. 

The  girl  had  been  in  a  way  conscious  of  the  grad 
ual  change  in  Ollie's  life,  as  it  had  been  revealed  in 
his  letters,  but  she  had  failed  to  connect  that  change 
with  her  lover.  The  world  into  which  young  Stewart 
had  gone,  and  by  which  he  was  being  formed,  was  so 
foreign  to  the  only  world  known  to  Sammy,  that, 
while  she  realized  in  a  dim  way  that  he  was  under 
going  a  transformation,  she  still  saw  him  in  her  mind 
as  the  backwoods  boy.  With  the  announcement  of 
his  return,  and  the  thought  that  she  would  soon  meet 
him  face  to  face,  it  burst  upon  her  suddenly  that  her 
lover  was  a  stranger.  The  man  who  wrote  this  letter 
was  not  the  man  whom  she  had  promised  to  marry. 
Who  was  he  ? 

Passing  the  mill  and  the  blacksmith  shop,  the 
brown  pony  with  his  absorbed  rider  began  to  climb 


187 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  steep  road  to  the  Matthews  place.  Half  way  up 
the  hill,  the  little  horse,  stepping  on  a  loose  stone, 
stumbled,  catching  himself  quickly. 

As  a  flash  of  lightning  on  a  black  night  reveals 
well  known  landmarks  and  familiar  objects,  this  in 
cident  brought  back  to  Sammy  the  evening  when, 
with  Ollie  and  Young  Matt,  she  had  climbed  the 
same  way ;  when  her  horse  had  stumbled  and  her  face 
had  come  close  to  the  face  of  the  big  fellow  whose 
hand  was  on  the  pony's  neck.  The  whole  scene  came 
before  her  with  a  vividness  that  was  startling;  every 
word,  every  look,  every  gesture  of  the  two  young 
men,  her  own  thoughts  and  words,  the  objects  along 
the  road,  the  very  motion  of  her  horse;  she  seemed 
to  be  actually  living  again  those  moments  of  the  past. 
But  more  than  this,  she  seemed  not  only  to  live  again 
the  incidents  of  that  evening,  but  in  some  strange  way 
to  possess  the  faculty  of  analyzing  and  passing  judg 
ment  upon  her  own  thoughts  and  words. 

Great  changes  had  come  to  Sammy,  too,  since  that 
night  when  her  lover  had  said  good-by.  And  now, 
in  her  deeper  life,  the  young  woman  felt  a  curious 
sense  of  shame,  as  she  saw  how  trivial  were  the  things 
that  had  influenced  her  to  become  Ollie's  promised 
wife.  She  blushed,  as  she  recalled  the  motives  that 
had  sent  her  to  the  shepherd  with  the  request  that  he 
teach  her  to  be  a  fine  lady. 

Coming  out  on  top  of  the  ridge,  Brownie  stopped 
188 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  his  own  accord,  and  the  girl  saw  again  the  figure 
of  a  young  giant,  standing  in  the  level  rajs  of  the 
setting  sun,  with  his  great  arms  outstretched,  saying, 
"I  reckon  I  was  built  to  live  in  these  hills.  I  don't 
guess  you'd  better  count  on  me  ever  bein'  more'n  I 
am."  Sammy  realized  suddenly  that  the  question 
was  no  longer  whether  Ollie  would  be  ashamed  of  her, 
It  was  quite  a  different  question,  indeed. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII. 
OLLIE  COMES  HOME. 

1HE  day  that  Ollie  was  expected  at  the 
cabin  on  Dewey  Bald,  Mr.  Lane  was  busy 
in  the  field. 

"I  don't  reckon  you'll  need  me  at  th' 
house  nohow,"  he  said  with  a  queer  laugh,  as  he  rose 
from  the  dinner  table;  and  Sammy,  blushing,  told 
him  to  go  on  to  his  work,  or  Young  Matt  would  get 
his  planting  done  first. 

Jim  went  out  to  get  his  horse  from  the  stable,  but 
before  he  left,  he  returned  once  more  to  the  house. 

"What  is  it,  Daddy?  Forget  something?"  asked 
Sammy,  as  her  father  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Not  exactly,"  drawled  Jim.  "I  ain't  got  a  very 
good  forgetter.  Wish  I  had.  It's  somethin'  I  can't 
forget.  Wish  I  could." 

In  a  moment  the  girl's  arms  were  about  his  neck, 
"You  dear  foolish  old  Daddy  Jim.  I  have  a  bad  for 
getter,  too.  You  thought  when  I  began  studying  with 
Dad  Howitt  that  my  books  would  make  me  forget 
you.  Well,  have  they?"  A  tightening  of  the  long 
arm  about  her  waist  was  the  only  answer.  "And  now 
you  are  making  yourself  miserable  trying  to  think 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

that  Ollie  Stewart  and  his  friends  will  make  me 
forget  you;  just  as  if  all  the  folks  in  the  world  could 
ever  be  to  me  what  you  are ;  you,  and  Dad,  and  Uncle 
Matt,  and  Aunt  Mollie,  and  Young  Matt.  Daddy,  I 
am  ashamed  of  you.  Honest,  I  am.  Do  you  think 
a  real  genuine  lady  could  ever  forget  the  father  who 
had  been  so  good  to  her  ?  Daddy,  I  am  insulted. 
You  must  apologize  immediately." 

She  pretended  to  draw  away,  but  the  long  arm  held 
her  fast,  while  the  mountaineer  said  in  a  voice  that 
had  in  it  pride  and  pain,  with  a  world  of  love,  "I 
know,  I  know,  girl.  But  you'll  be  a  livin'  in  the 
city,  when  you  and  Ollie  are  married,  and  these  old 
hills  will  be  mighty  lonesome  with  you  gone.  You  see 
I  couldn't  never  leave  the  old  place.  'Tain't  much,  I 
know,  so  far  as  money  value  goes.  But  there's  some 
things  worth  a  heap  more  than  their  money  value,  I 
reckon.  If  you  was  only  goin'  t'  live  where  I  could 
ride  over  once  or  twice  a  week  to  see  you,  it  would  be 
different." 

"Yes,  Daddy ;  but  maybe  I  won't  go  after  all.  I'm 
not  married,  yet,  you  know." 

Something  in  her  voice  or  manner  caused  Jim  to 
hold  his  daughter  at  arm's  length,  and  look  full  into 
the  brown  eyes ;  "What  do  you  mean,  girl  ?" 

Sammy  laughed  in  an  uneasy  and  embarrassed 
way.  She  was  not  sure  that  she  knew  herself  all  that 
lay  beneath  the  simple  words.  She  tried  to  explain. 

191 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

*<Why,  I  mean  that — that  Ollie  and  I  have  botb 
grown  up  since  we  promised,  and  he  has  been  living 
away  out  in  the  big  world  and  going  to  school  besides. 
He  must  have  seen  many  girls  since  he  left  me.  He 
is  sure  to  be  changed  greatly,  and — and,  maybe  he 
won't  want  a  backwoods  wife." 

The  man  growled  something  beneath  his  breath, 
and  the  girl  placed  a  hand  over  his  lips;  "You 
mustn't  say  swear  words,  Daddy  Jim.  Indeed,  you 
must  not.  Not  in  the  presence  of  ladies,  anyway." 

"You're  changed  a  heap  in  some  ways,  too,"  said 
Jim. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  am ;  but  my  changes  are  mostly 
on  the  inside  like ;  and  perhaps  he  won't  see  them." 

"Would  you  care  so  mighty  much,  Sammy  ?"  whis 
pered  the  father. 

"That's  just  it,  Daddy.  How  can  I  tell?  We  must 
both  begin  all  over  again,  don't  you  see  ?"  Then  she 
sent  him  away  to  his  work. 

Sammy  had  finished  washing  the  dinner  dishes, 
and  was  putting  things  in  order  about  the  house, 
when  she  stopped  suddenly  before  the  little  shelf  that 
held  her  books.  Then,  with  a  smile,  she  carried  them 
everyone  into  her  own  room,  placing  them  carefully 
where  they  could  not  be  seen  from  the  open  door. 
Going  next  to  the  mirror,  she  deliberately  took  down 
her  hair,  and  arranged  it  in  the  old  careless  way 
fchat  Ollie  had  always  known.  "You're  just  the  sama 

192 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

backwoods  girl,  Sammy  Lane,  so  far  as  outside  things 
go,"  she  said  to  the  face  in  the  glass;  "but  you  are 
not  quite  the  same  all  the  way  through.  We'll  see  if 
he — "  She  was  interrupted  by  the  loud  barking  of 
the  dog  outside,  and  her  heart  beat  more  quickly  as  a 
voice  cried,  "Hello,  hello,  I  say ;  call  off  your  dog !" 

Sammy  hurried  to  the  door.  A  strange  gentleman 
stood  at  the  gate.  The  strangest  gentleman  that 
Sammy  had  ever  seen.  Surely  this  could  not  be  Ollie 
Stewart;  this  slender,  pale-faced  man,  with  faultless 
linen,  well  gloved  hands  and  shining  patent  leathers. 
The  girl  drew  back  in  embarrassment. 

But  there  was  no  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the 
young  man.  Before  she  could  recover  from  her  as 
tonishment,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  again  and  again,  until  she  struggled  from  his 
embrace.  "You — you  must  not,"  she  gasped. 

"Why  not  ?"  he  demanded  laughingly.  "Has  any 
one  a  better  right  ?  I  have  waited  a  long  while  for 
this,  and  I  mean  to  make  up  now  for  lost  time." 

He  took  a  step  toward  her  again,  but  Sammy  held 
him  off  at  arm's  length,  as  she  repeated,  "No — no — 
you  must  not;  not  now."  Young  Stewart  was  help 
less.  And  the  discovery  that  she  was  stronger  than 
this  man  brought  to  the  girl  a  strange  feeling,  as  of 
shame. 

"How  strong  you  are,"  he  said  petulantly,  ceasing 
his  efforts.  Then  carefully  surveying  the  splendidly 

193 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

proportioned  and  developed  young  woman,  he  added, 
"And  how  beautiful !" 

Under  his  look,  Sammy's  face  flushed  painfully, 
even  to  her  neck  and  brow ;  and  the  man,  seeing  her 
confusion,  laughed  again.  Then,  seating  himself  in 
the  only  rocking-chair  in  the  room,  the  young  gen 
tleman  leisurely  removed  his  gloves,  looking  around 
the  while  with  an  amused  expression  on  his  face, 
while  the  girl  stood  watching  him.  At  last,  he  said 
impatiently,  "Sit  down,  sit  down,  Sammy.  You  look 
at  me  as  if  I  were  a  ghost." 

Unconsciously,  she  slipped  into  the  speech  of  the 
old  days,  "You  sure  don't  look  much  like  you  used 
to.  I  never  see  nobody  wear  such  clothes  as  them. 
"Not  even  Dad  Howitt,  when  he  first  come.  Do  you 
wear  ?em  every  day  ?" 

Ollie  frowned;  "You're  just  like  all  the  rest, 
Sammy.  Why  don't  you  talk  as  you  write  ?  You've 
improved  a  lot  in  your  letters.  If  you  talk  like  that 
in  the  city,  people  will  know  in  a  minute  that  you 
are  from  the  country." 

At  this,  Sammy  rallied  her  scattered  wits,  and  the 
wide,  questioning  look  was  in  her  eyes,  as  she  re 
plied  quietly,  "Thank  you.  I'll  try  to  remember. 
But  tell  me,  please,  what  harm  could  it  do,  if  people 
did  know  I  came  from  the  country  ?" 

It  was  Ollie's  turn  to  be  amazed.  "Why  you  can 
talk!"  he  said.  "'Where  did  you  learn?"  And  the 

194 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

girl  answered  simply  that  she  had  picked  it  up  from 
the  old  shepherd. 

This  little  incident  put  Sammy  more  at  ease,  and 
she  skillfully  led  her  companion  to  speak  of  the  city 
and  his  life  there.  Of  his  studies  the  young  fellow 
had  little  to  say,  and,  to  her  secret  delight,  the  girl 
found  that  she  had  actually  made  greater  progress 
with  her  books  than  had  her  lover  with  all  his  sup 
posed  advantages. 

But  of  other  things,  of  the  gaiety  and  excitement 
of  the  great  city,  of  his  new  home,  the  wealth  of  his 
uncle,  and  his  own  bright  prospects,  Ollie  spoke 
freely,  never  dreaming  the  girl  had  already  seen  the 
life  he  painted  in  such  glowing  colors  through  the 
eyes  of  one  who  had  been  careful  to  point  out  the 
froth  and  foam  of  it  all.  Neither  did  the  young  man 
discover  in  the  quiet  questions  she  asked  that  Sammy 
was  seeking  to  know  what  in  all  this  new  world  he 
had  found  that  he  could  make  his  own  as  the  thing 
most  worth  while. 

The  backwoods  girl  had  never  seen  that  type  of 
man  to  whom  the  life  of  the  city,  only,  is  life.  Ollie 
was  peculiarly  fitted  by  nature  to  absorb  quickly 
those  things  of  the  world,  into  which  he  had  gone, 
that  were  most  different  from  the  world  he  had  left ; 
and  there  remained  scarcely  a  trace  of  his  earlier 
wilderness  training. 

But  there  is  that  in  life  that  lies  too  deep  for  any 
195 


T1IK  SIlMlMIKliD  OK  THK   HILLS 

more  change  of  em 'ironment  to  touch.  Sammy  re 
membered  21  lesson  tin*  shepherd  luul  given  her:  "A 
gentle  spirit  may  express  itself  in  tlio  rude  words  of 
illiteracy;  it  is  not  therefore  rude.  Kutliauism  may 
speak  the  language  of  learning  or  religion;  it  is 
riitlianisui  still.  Strength  may  wear  the  garb  of  weak 
ness,  and  still  bo  strong;  and  a  weakling  may  carry 
the  weapons  of  strength,  but  tight,  with  a  faint  heart." 
So,  beneath  all  the  changes  that  had  come,  to  her 
backwoods  lover,  Sammy  felt  that  Ollie  himself  was 
unchanged.  It  was  as  though  he  had  learned  a  new 
language,  but,  still  said  the  same  things. 

Sammy,  too,  had  entered  a  new  world.  Step  by 
step,  as  the  young  man  had  advanced  in  his  school 
ing,  and,  dropping  the  habits  and  customs  of  the 
backwoods,  had  conformed  in  his  outward  life  to  his 
new  environment,  the  girl  had  advanced  in  her  edu 
cation  under  the  careful  hand  of  the  old  shepherd. 
Ignorant  still  of  the  false  standards  and  the  petty 
ambitions  that  are  so  large  a  part  of  the  complex 
world,  into  which  he  had  gone,  she  had  been  intro 
duced  to  a  world  where  the  life  itself  is  the  only 
thing  worth  while.  She  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
glittering  tinsel  of  that  cheap  culture  that  is  death 
to  all  true  refinement.  But  in  the  daily  companion 
ship  of  her  gentle  teacher,  she  had  lived  in  touch 
with  true  aristocracy,  the  aristocracy  of  heart  and 
spirit. 

196 


THE  SIIEPHEKJJ  OF  THE  HILLS 

Young  Matt  and  Jim  had  thought  that,  in 
Sammy's  education,  the  bond  between  the  girl  and 
her  lover  would  be  strengthened.  They  had  thought 
to  see  her  growing  farther  and  farther  from  the  life 
of  the  hills;  the  life  to  which  they  felt  that  they 
must  always  belong.  But  that  was  because  Young 
Matt  and  Jim  did  not  know  the  kind  of  education 
the  girl  was  getting. 

So  Ollie  had  come  back  to  his  old  home  to  meas 
ure  things  by  his  new  standard;  and  he  had  come 
back,  too,  to  be  measured  according  to  the  old,  old 
standard.  If  the  man's  eyes  were  dimmed  by  the 
flash  and  sparkle  that  play  upon  the  surface  of  life, 
the  woman's  vision  was  strong  and  clear  to  look  into 
the  still  depths. 

Later  in  the  day,  as  they  walked  together  up  the 
Old  Trail  to  Sammy's  Lookout,  the  girl  tried  to 
show  him  some  of  the  things  that  had  been  revealed 
to  her  in  the  past  months.  But  the  young  fellow 
could  not  follow  where  she  led,  and  answered  her  al 
ways  with  some  flippant  remark,  or  with  the  super 
ficial  philosophy  of  his  kind. 

When  he  tried  to  turn  the  talk  to  their  future,  she 
skillfully  defeated  his  purpose,  or  was  silent;  and 
when  he  would  claim  a  lover's  privileges,  she  held 
him  off.  Upon  his  demanding  a  reason  for  her  cold- 
aess,  she  answered,  "Don't  you  see  that  everything  is 

197 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

different  now?  We  must  learn  to  know  each  other 
over  again." 

"But  you  are  my  promised  wife." 

"I  promised  to  be  the  wife  of  a  backwoodsman," 
she  answered.  "I  cannot  keep  that  promise,  for  that 
man  is  dead.  You  are  a  man  of  the  city,  and  I 
am  scarcely  acquainted  with  you." 

Young  Stewart  found  himself  not  a  little  puzzled 
by  the  situation.  He  had  come  home  expecting  to 
meet  a  girl  beautiful  in  face  and  form,  but  with  the 
mind  of  a  child  to  wonder  at  the  things  he  would 
tell  her.  He  had  found,  instead,  a  thoughtful 
young  woman  trained  to  look  for  and  recognize  truth 
and  beauty.  Sammy  was  always  his  physical  su 
perior.  She  was  now  his  intellectual  superior  as 
well.  The  change  that  had  come  to  her  was  not  a 
change  by  environment  of  the  things  that  lay  upon 
the  surface,  but  it  was  a  change  in  the  deeper  things 
of  life — in  the  purpose  and  understanding  of  life, 
itself.  Like  many  of  his  kind,  Ollie  could  not  dis 
tinguish  between  these  things. 


t.98 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

WHAT  MAKES  A  MAN. 

iR.  MATTHEWS  and  his  son  finished 
their  planting  early  in  the  afternoon  and 
the  boy  set  out  to  find  old  Kate  and  the 
mule  colt.  Those  rovers  had  not  ap 
peared  at  the  home  place  for  nearly  two  weeks,  and 
some  one  must  bring  them  in  before  they  forgot  their 
home  completely. 

"Don't  mind  if  I  ain't  back  for  supper,  Mother," 
said  Young  Matt.  "I  may  eat  at  the  ranch  with  Dad. 
I  ain't  been  down  there  for  quite  a  spell  now,  an'  I'd 
kind  o'  like  to  know  if  that  panther  we've  been  a 
hearin'  is  givin'  Dad  any  trouble." 

"Dad  told  me  yesterday  that  he  thought  he  heard 
old  Kate's  bell  over  on  yon  side  of  Cox's  Bald,"  said 
Mr.  Matthews;  "I  believe  if  I  was  you  I'd  take 
across  Cox's,  along  the  far  side  of  th'  ridge,  around 
Dewey  an'  down  into  the  Hollow  that  way.  Joe 
Gardner  was  over  north  yesterday,  an'  he  said  he 
didn't  see  no  signs  on  that  range.  I  reckon  you'll 
find  'em  on  Dewey  some  wheres  about  Jim  Lane's, 
maybe.  You'd  better  saddle  a  horse.  ' 

"Xo,  I'll  take  it  a  foot.  I  can  ride  old  Kate  in, 
if  I  find  them,"  replied  the  big  fellow ;  and,  with  his 

199 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  he  struck  out  over  the 
hills.  All  along  the  eastern  slope  of  the  ridge,  that 
forms  one  side  of  Mutton  Hollow,  he  searched  for 
the  missing  stock,  but  not  a  sound  of  the  bell  could 
he  hear;  not  a  trace  of  the  vagabonds  could  he  find. 
And  that  was  because  old  Kate  and  the  little  colt 
were  standing  quietly  in  the  shade  in  a  little  glen 
below  Sand  Ridge  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
barn. 

The  afternoon  was  well  on  when  Young  Matt  gave 
up  the  search,  and  shaped  his  course  for  the  sheep 
ranch.  He  was  on  the  farther  side  of  Dewey,  and  the 
sun  told  him  that  there  was  just  time  enough  to  reach 
the  cabin  before  supper. 

Pushing  straight  up  the  side  of  the  mountain,  he 
found  the  narrow  bench,  that  runs  like  a  great  cornice 
two-thirds  of  the  way  around  the  Bald  Knob.  The 
mountaineer  knew  that  at  that  level,  on  the  side  op 
posite  from  where  he  stood,  was  Sammy's  Lookout, 
and  from  there  it  was  an  easy  road  down  to  the  sheep 
ranch  in  the  valley.  Also,  he  knew  that  from  that 
rocky  shelf,  all  along  the  southern  side  of  the  moun 
tain,  he  would  look  down  upon  Sammy's  home ;  and, 
who  could  tell,  he  might  even  catch  a  glimpse  of 
Sammy  herself.  Very  soon  he  rounded  the  turn  of 
the  hill,  and  saw  far  below  the  Lane  homestead ;  the 
cabin  and  the  barn  in  the  little  clearing  looking  like 
tiny  doll  houses. 

200 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Young  Matt  walked  slowly  now.  The  supper  was 
forgotten.  Coming  to  the  clump  of  cedars  just  above 
the  Old  Trail  where  it  turns  the  shoulder  of  the  hill 
from  the  west,  he  stopped  for  a  last  look.  Beyond 
this  point,  he  would  turn  his  back  upon  the  scene 
that  interested  him  so  deeply. 

The  young  man  could  not  remember  when  he  had 
not  loved  Sammy  Lane.  She  seemed  to  have  been 
always  a  part  of  his  life.  It  was  the  season  of  the 
year  when  all  the  wild  things  of  the  forest  choose 
their  mates,  and  as  the  big  fellow  stood  there  looking 
down  upon  the  home  of  the  girl  he  loved,  all  the 
splendid  passion  of  his  manhood  called  for  her.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  whole  world  was  slipping 
away  to  leave  him  alone  in  a  measureless  universe. 
He  almost  cried  aloud.  It  is  the  same  instinct 
that  prompts  the  panther  to  send  his  mating  call  ring 
ing  over  the  hills  and  through  the  forest,  and  leads 
the  moose  to  issue  his  loud  challenge. 

At  last  Young  Matt  turned  to  go,  when  he  heard 
the  sound  of  voices.  Someone  was  coming  along  the 
Old  Trail  that  lay  in  full  view  on  the  mountain  side 
not  two  hundred  yards  away.  Instinctively  the 
woodsman  drew  back  into  the  thick  foliage  of  the 
cedars. 

The  voices  grew  louder.  A  moment  more  and 
Sammy  with  Ollie  Stewart  appeared  from  around  the 
turn  of  the  hill.  They  were  walking  side  by  side  and 

201 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

talking  earnestly.  The  young  woman  had  just  denied 
the  claims  of  her  former  lover,  and  was  explaining 
the  change  in  her  attitude  toward  him;  but  the  big 
fellow  on  the  ledge  above  could  not  know  that.  He 
could  not  hear  what  they  were  saying.  He  only  saw 
his  mate,  and  the  man  who  had  come  to  take  her 
from  him. 

Half  crouching  on  the  rocky  shelf  in  the  dark 
shadow  of  the  cedar,  the  giant  seemed  a  wild  thing 
ready  for  his  spring;  ready  and  eager,  yet  held  in 
check  by  something  more  powerful  still  than  his 
passion.  Slowly  the  two,  following  the  Old  Trail, 
passed  from  sight,  and  Young  Matt  stood  erect.  He 
was  trembling  like  a  frightened  child.  A  moment 
longer  he  waited,  then  turned  and  fairly  ran  from  the 
place.  Leaving  the  ledge  at  the  Lookout,  he  rushed 
down  the  mountain  and  through  the  woods  as  if  mad, 
to  burst  in  upon  the  shepherd,  with  words  that  were 
half  a  cry,  half  a  groan.  "He's  come,  Dad;  he's 
come.  I've  just  seen  him  with  her." 

Mr.  Howitt  sprang  up  with  a  startled  exclama 
tion.  His  face  went  white.  He  grasped  the  table  for 
support.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  words  would  not 
come.  He  could  only  stare  with  frightened  eyes,  as 
though  Young  Matt  himself  were  some  fearful  ap 
parition. 

The  big  fellow  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and 


202 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

presently  the  shepherd  managed  to  say  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  "Tell  me  about  it,  Grant,  if  you  can." 

"I  seen  them  up  on  Dewey  just  now,  goin'  down 
the  Old  Trail  from  Sammy's  Lookout  to  her  home, 
I  was  huntin'  stock." 

The  old  scholar  leaned  toward  his  friend,  as  he 
almost  shouted,  "Saw  them  going  to  Sammy's  home ! 
Saw  whom,  lad  ?  Whom  did  you  see  ?" 

"Why — why — Sammy  Lane  and  that — that  Ollie 
Stewart,  of  course.  I  tell  you  he's  come  back.  Come 
to  take  her  away." 

The  reaction  was  almost  as  bad  as  the  shock  Mr, 
Howitt  gasped  as  he  dropped  back  into  his  seat.  He 
felt  a  hysterical  impulse  to  laugh,  to  cry  out.  Young 
Matt  continued ;  "He's  come  home,  Dad,  with  all  his 
fine  clothes  and  city  airs,  and  now  she'll  go  away  with 
him,  and  we  won't  never  see  her  again." 

As  he  began  to  put  his  thoughts  into  words,  the 
giant  got  upon  his  feet,  and  walked  the  floor  like  one 
insane.  "He  shan't  have  her,"  he  cried,  clenching 
his  great  fists;  "he  shan't  have  her.  If  he  was  a 
man  I  could  stand  it,  Dad.  But  look  at  him !  Look 
at  him,  will  you  ?  The  little  white-f  aced,  washed  out 
runt,  what  is  he  ?  He  ain't  no  man,  Dad.  He  ain't 
even  as  much  of  a  man  as  he  was.  And  Sammy  is — 
God !  What  a  woman  she  is !  You've  been  a  tellin? 
me  that  I  could  be  a  gentleman,  even  if  I  always  lived 


203 


THE  SHEPHERD  OE  THE  HILLS 

in  the  backwoods.  But  you're  wrong,  Dad,  plumb 
wrong.  I  ain't  no  gentleman.  I  can't  never  be  one. 
I'm  just  a  man.  I'm  a — a  savage,  a  damned  beast, 
and  I'm  glad  of  it."  He  threw  back  his  shaggy  head, 
and  his  white  teeth  gleamed  through  his  parted  lips, 
as  he  spoke  in  tones  of  mad  defiance. 

"Dad,  you  say  there's  some  things  bigger'n  learn- 
in',  and  such,  and  I  reckon  this  here's  one  of  them.  I 
don't  care  if  that  little  whelp  goes  to  all  the  schools 
there  is,  and  gets  to  be  a  president  or  a  king ;  I  don't 
care  if  he's  got  all  the  money  there  is  between  here 
and  hell;  put  him  out  here  in  the  woods,  face  to 
face  with  life  where  them  things  don't  count,  and 
what  is  he  ?  What  is  he,  Dad  ?  He's  nothin' !  plumb 
nothin' !" 

The  old  shepherd  waited  quietly  for  the  storm  to 
pass.  The  big  fellow  would  come  to  himself  after 
a  time;  until  then,  words  were  useless.  At  last 
Young  Matt  spoke  in  calmer  tones;  "I  run  away, 
Dad.  I  had  to.  I  was  afraid  I'd  hurt  him.  Some 
thing  inside  o'  me  just  fought  to  get  at  him,  and  I 
couldn't  a  held  out  much  longer.  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  nobody,  Dad.  I  reckon  it  was  a  seein'  'em 
together  that  did  it.  It's  a  God's  blessin'  I  come 
away  when  I  did;  it  sure  is."  He  dropped  wearily 
into  his  chair  again. 

Then  the  teacher  spoke,  "It  is  always  a  God's 
blessing,  lad,  when  a  man  masters  the  worst  of  him- 

204 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

self.  You  are  a  strong  man,  my  boy.  You  hardly 
know  your  strength.  But  you  need  always  to  remem 
ber  that  the  stronger  the  man,  the  easier  it  is  for  him 
to  become  a  beast.  Your  manhood  depends  upon  this, 
and  upon  nothing  else,  that  you  conquer  and  control 
the  animal  side  of  yourself.  It  will  be  a  sad  moment 
for  you,  and  for  all  of  us  who  love  you,  if  you  ever 
forget.  Don't  you  see,  lad,  it  is  this  victory  only  that 
gives  you  the  right  to  think  of  yourself  as  a  man. 
Mind,  I  say  to  think  of  yourself,  as  a  man.  It  doesn't 
much  matter  what  others  think  of  you.  It  is  what 
one  can  honestly  think  of  one's  self  that  matters." 

So  they  spent  the  evening  together,  and  the  big 
mountaineer  learned  to  see  still  more  deeply  into  the 
things  that  had  come  to  the  older  man  in  his  years 
of  study  and  painful  experience. 

When  at  last  Young  Matt  arose  to  say  good-night, 
the  shepherd  tried  to  persuade  him  to  sleep  at  the 
ranch.  But  he  said,  no,  the  folks  at  home  would 
be  looking  for  him,  and  he  must  go.  "I'm  mighty 
glad  I  come,  Dad,"  he  added ;  "I  don't  know  what  I'd 
do  if  it  wasn't  for  you ;  go  plumb  hog  wild,  and  make 
a  fool  of  myself,  I  reckon.  I  don't  know  what  a  lot 
of  us  would  do,  either.  Seems  like  you're  a  sort  of 
shepherd  to  the  whole  neighborhood.  I  reckon, 
though,  I'm  'bout  the  worst  in  the  flock,"  he  finished 
with  a  grim  smile. 

Mr.  Howitt  took  his  hat  from  the  nail.  "If  you 
205 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

must  go,  I  will  walk  a  little  way  with  you.  I  love  to 
be  out  such  nights  as  this.  I  often  wish  Pete  would 
take  me  with  him." 

"He's  out  somewhere  tonight,  sure,"  replied  the 
other,  as  they  started.  "We  heard  him  a  singin'  last 
night."  Then  he  stopped  and  asked,  "Where's  your 
gun,  Dad?  There's  a  panther  somewhere  on  this 
range." 

"I  know,"  returned  the  shepherd;  "I  heard  it 
scream  last  night ;  and  I  meant  to  go  up  to  the  house 
today  for  a  gun.  I  broke  the  hammer  of  mine  yester- 
day." 

"That's  bad,"  said  Young  Matt.  "But  come  on, 
I'll  leave  mine  with  you  until  tomorrow.  That  fellow 
would  sure  make  things  lively,  if  he  should  come  to 
see  you,  and  catch  you  without  a  shootin'  iron." 

Together  the  two  walked  through  the  timber,  until 
they  came  to  where  the  trail  that  leads  to  the  Mat 
thews  place  begins  to  climb  the  low  spur  of  the  hill 
back  of  the  house.  Here  Mr.  Howitt  stopped  to  say 
good-night,  adding,  as  the  young  man  gave  him  the 
rifle,  "I  don't  like  to  take  this,  Grant.  What  if  you 
should  meet  that  panther  between  here  and  home  ?" 

"Shucks!"  returned  the  other;  "you're  the  one 
that'll  need  it  You've  got  to  take  care  of  them  sheep. 
I'll  get  home  alright." 

"Don't  forget  the  other  beast,  lad.  Remember 
what  it  is  that  makes  the  man." 

206 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

YOUNG  MATT  REMEMBERS 


parting   with   his   friend,   Young 
Matt    continued    on    his    way    until    he 
reached  the  open  ground  below  the  point 
where  the  path  from  the  ranch  joins  the 
Old  Trail.    Then  he  stopped  and  looked  around. 

Before  him  was  the  belt  of  timber,  and  beyond, 
the  dark  mass  of  the  mountain  ridge  with  the  low 
gap  where  his  home  nestled  among  the  trees.  He 
could  see  the  light  from  the  cabin  window  shining 
like  a  star.  Behind  him  lay  the  darker  forest  of  the 
Hollow,  and  beyond,  like  a  great  sentinel,  was  the 
round,  treeless  form  of  Dewey  Bald.  From  where  the 
stood,  he  could  even  see  clearly  against  the  sky  the 
profile  of  the  mountain's  shoulder,  and  the  ledge  at 
Sammy's  Lookout.  Another  moment,  and  the  young 
man  had  left  the  path  that  led  to  his  home,  and  was 
making  straight  for  the  distant  hill.  He  would  climb 
to  that  spot  where  he  had  stood  in  the  afternoon,  and 
would  look  down  once  more  upon  the  Uttle  cabin  on 
the  mountain  side.  Then  he  would  go  home  along 
the  ridge, 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  later,  he  pushed  up  out 

207 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  a  ravine  that  lie  followed  to  its  head  below  the 
Old  Trail,  near  the  place  where,  with  Pete  and  the 
shepherd,  he  had  watched  Sammy  reading  her  letter. 
He  was  climbing  to  the  Lookout,  for  it  was  the  easiest 
way  to  the  ledge,  and,  as  his  eye  came  on  a  level  with 
the  bench  along  which  the  path  runs,  he  saw  clearly 
on  the  big  rock  above  the  figure  of  a  man.  Instantly 
Young  Matt  stopped.  The  moon  shone  full  upon 
the  spot,  and  he  easily  recognized  the  figure.  It  "^as 
Ollie  Stewart. 

Young  Stewart  had  been  greatly  puzzled  by  Sam 
my's  attitude.  It  was  so  unexpected,  and,  to  his 
mind,  so  unreasonable.  He  loved  the  girl  as  much  as 
it  was  possible  for  one  of  his  weak  nature  to  love; 
and  he  had  felt  sure  of  his  place  in  her  affections. 
But  the  door  that  had  once  yielded  so  readily  to  his 
touch  he  had  found  fast  shut.  He  was  on  the  outside, 
and  he  seemed  somehow  to  have  lost  the  key.  In  this 
mood  on  his  way  home,  he  had  reached  the  spot  that 
was  so  closely  associated  with  the  girl,  and,  pausing 
to  rest  after  the  sharp  climb,  had  fallen  to  brooding 
over  his  disappointment.  So  intent  was  he  upon  his 
gloomy  thoughts  that  he  had  not  heard  Young  Matt 
approaching,  and  was  wholly  unconscious  of  that  big 
fellow's  presence  in  the  vicinity. 

For  a  time  the  face  at  the  edge  of  the  path  re 
garded  the  figure  on  the  rock  intently;  then  it  drop 
ped  from  sight.  Young  Matt  slipped  quietly  down 

208 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

into  the  ravine,  and  a  few  moments  later  climbed 
again  to  the  Old  Trail  at  a  point  hidden  from  the 
Lookout.  Here  he  stepped  quickly  across  the  narrow 
open  space  and  into  the  bushes  on  the  slope  of  the 
mountain  above.  Then  with  the  skill  of  one  born 
and  reared  in  the  woods,  the  mountaineer  made  his 
way  toward  the  man  on  the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 

What  purpose  lay  under  his  strange  movement 
Foxing  Matt  did  not  know.  But  certainly  it  was  not 
in  his  mind  to  harm  Ollie.  He  was  acting  upon  the 
impulse  of  the  moment ;  an  impulse  to  get  nearer  and 
to  study  unobserved  the  person  of  his  rival.  So  he 
stalked  him  with  all  the  instinct  of  a  creature  of  the 
woods.  "Not  a  twig  snapped,  not  a  leaf  rustled,  as 
from  bush  to  fallen  log,  from  tree  trunk  to  rock,  he 
crept,  always  in  the  black  shadows,  or  behind  some 
object. 

But  there  were  still  other  eyes  on  Old  Dewey  that 
night,  and  sharp  ears  heard  the  big  woodsman  climb 
ing  out  of  the  ravine,  if  Ollie  did  not.  When  the 
young  man  in  the  clear  light  of  the  moon  crossed  the 
Old  Trail,  a  figure  near  the  clump  of  trees,  where  he 
had  sat  with  his  two  friends  that  day,  dropped  quietly 
behind  a  big  rock,  half  hidden  in  the  bushes.  As  the 
giant  crept  toward  the  Lookout,  this  figure  followed, 
showing  but  little  less  skill  than  the  mountaineer 
himself.  Once  a  loose  stone  rattled  slightly,  and  the 
big  fellow  turned  his  head ;  but  the  figure  was  lying 

209 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

behind  a  log  that  the  other  had  just  left.  When 
Young  Matt  finally  reached  the  position  as  close  to 
Ollie  as  he  could  go  without  certain  discovery,  the 
figure  also  came  to  a  rest,  not  far  away. 

The  moments  passed  very  slowly  now  to  the  man 
crouching  in  the  shadows.  Ollie  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  early  yet  to  one  accustomed  to  late  hours  in 
the  city.  Young  Matt  heard  distinctly  the  snap  of 
the  case  as  the  watch  was  closed  and  returned  to  its 
owner's  pocket.  Then  Stewart  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
flipped  the  burned  out  match  almost  into  his  unseen 
companion's  face. 

It  seemed  to  Young  Matt  that  he  had  been  there 
for  hours.  Years  ago  he  left  his  home  yonder  on 
the  ridge,  to  look  for  stray  stock.  They  must  have 
forgotten  him  long  before  this.  The  quiet  cabin  in 
the  Hollow,  and  his  friend,  the  shepherd,  too,  were 
far  away.  In  all  that  lonely  mountain  there  was  no 
one — no  one  but  that  man  on  the  rock  there;  that 
man,  and  himself.  How  bright  the  moon  was ! 

Suddenly  another  form  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
It  came  creeping  around  the  hill  from  beyond  the 
Lookout.  It  was  a  long,  low,  lithe-bodied,  form  that 
moved  with  the  easy,  gliding  movements  of  a  big  cat. 
Noiselessly  the  soft  padded  feet  fell  upon  the  hard 
rock  and  loose  gravel  of  the  old  pathway ;  the  path 
way  along  which  so  many  things  had  gone  for  their 
kill,  or  had  gone  to  be  killed. 

210 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Young  Matt  saw  it  the  moment  it  appeared.  He 
started  in  his  place.  He  recognized  it  instantly  as 
the  most  feared  of  all  the  wild  things  in  the  mountain 
wilderness — a  panther.  He  saw  it  sniff  the  foot 
prints  on  the  trail — Ollie's  footprints.  He  saw  it 
pause  and  crouch  as  it  caught  sight  of  the  man  on 
the  rock. 

Instantly  wild  and  unwelcome  thoughts  burned 
within  the  strong  man's  brain.  The  woodsman  knew 
why  that  thing  had  come.  Against  such  a  foe  the 
unconscious  weakling  on  the  rock  there,  calmly  puf 
fing  his  cigar,  would  have  no  chance  whatever.  He 
would  not  even  know  of  its  presence,  until  it  had 
made  its  spring,  and  its  fangs  were  in  his  neck.  The 
man  of  the  wilderness  knew  just  how  it  would  be 
done.  It  would  be  over  in  a  minute. 

The  giant  clenched  his  teeth.  Why  had  he  not 
gone  on  to  his  home  after  leaving  the  shepherd  ?  Why 
had  he  followed  that  impulse  to  stand  again  where  he 
had  stood  that  afternoon  ?  Above  all,  what  had  pos 
sessed  him — what  had  led  him  to  creep  to  his  pres 
ent  position  ?  He  shot  a  quick  glance  around.  How 
bright — how  bright  the  moon  was! 

The  panther  turned  aside  from  the  trail  and  with 
silent  grace  leaped  to  the  ledge,  gaining  a  position  on 
a  level  with  Ollie — still  unconscious  of  its  presence. 
A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  the  big  man's  forehead. 
The  great  hands  worked.  His  breath  came  in  quick 

211 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

gasps.  It  could  not  be  laid  to  his  door.  He  had  only 
to  withdraw,  to  stop  his  ears  and  run,  as  he  had  fled 
that  afternoon.  God!  How  slowly  that  thing  crept 
forward,  crouching  low  upon  its  belly,  its  tail  twitch 
ing  from  side  to  side,  nearer,  nearer.  Young  Matt 
felt  smothered.  He  loosened  the  collar  of  his  shirt. 
The  moon — the  moon  was  so  bright !  He  could  even 
see  the  muscles  in  the  beast's  heavy  neck  and  shoul 
ders  working  under  the  sleek  skin. 

Suddenly  the  words  of  the  shepherd  came  to  him, 
as  though  shouted  in  his  ears,  "Remember  the  other 
beast,  lad.  Dont  you  see  it  is  this  victory  only  that 
gives  you  ihe  right  to  think  of  yourself  as  a  man  ?" 

Ollie  was  almost  brushed  from  his  place  as  the 
big  mountaineer  sprang  from  the  shadows,  while  the 
panther,  startled  by  the  appearance  of  another  man 
upon  the  rock,  paused.  An  exclamation  of  fright 
burst  from  young  Stewart,  as  he  took  in  the  situation. 
And  the  giant  by  his  side  reached  forth  a  hand  to 
push  him  back,  as  he  growled,  "Skut  up  and  get  out 
of  the  way !  This  here's  my  fight !" 

At  the  movement  the  wild  beast  seemed  to  under 
stand  that  the  newcomer  was  there  to  rob  him  of  his 
prey.  With  a  snarl,  it  crouched  low  again,  gathering 
its  muscles  for  the  spring.  The  giant  waited.  Sud 
denly  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  rang  out  on  the  still 
uiight,  echoing,  and  re-echoing  along  the  mountain. 
The  panther  leaped,  but  fell  short.  The  startled  men 

212 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

on  the  rock  saw  it  threshing  the  ground  in  its  death 
struggle. 

"That  was  a  lucky  shot  for  you,"  said  Ollie. 

"Lucky  for  me,"  repeated  Young  Matt  slowly,  eye 
ing  his  well  dressed  companion ;  "Well,  yes,  I  reckon 
it  was." 

"Who  fired  it?" 

The  big  fellow  shook  his  head  in  a  puzzled  way. 

Stewart  looked  surprised.  "Wasn't  it  someone 
hunting  with  you  ?" 

"With  me?  Huntin'  ?  Not  tonight;"  muttered 
the  other  still  searching  the  hill  side. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  were  doing  here 
alone,  then ;"  said  Ollie  suspiciously. 

At  his  tone,  Young  Matt  turned  upon  him  sav 
agely,  "  'Tain't  none  of  your  business,  what  I  was  a 
doin'  here,  that  I  can  see.  I  reckon  these  hills  are 
free  yet.  But  it's  mighty  lucky  for  us  both  that 
someone  was  'round,  whoever  he  is.  Maybe  you  ain't 
thankful  that  that  critter  ain't  fastened  on  your  neck. 
But  I  am.  An'  I'm  goin'  to  find  out  who  fired  that 
shot  if  I  can." 

He  started  forward,  but  Ollie  called  imperiously, 
"Hold  on  there  a  minute,  I  want  to  say  something  to 
you  first."  The  other  paused,  and  young  Stewart 
continued;  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  prowl 
ing  around  this  time  of  night.  But  it  looks  as  though 
you  were  watching  me.  I  warn  you  fairly,  don't  try 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

it  again.  I  know  how  you  feel  toward  Miss  Lane, 
and  I  know  how  you  have  been  with  her  while  I  was 
away.  I  tell  you  it's  got  to  stop.  She  is  to  be  my 
wife,  and  I  shall  protect  her.  You  may  just  as 
well—" 

He  got  no  further.  The  big  man  sprang  forward 
to  face  him  with  a  look  that  made  the  dandy  shrink 
with  fear.  "Protect  Sammy  Lane  from  me !  Protect 
her,  you !  You  know  what  I  feel  toward  her  ?  You !" 
He  fairly  choked  with  his  wild  rage. 

The  frightened  Ollie  drew  a  weapon  from  his 
pocket,  but,  with  a  snarling  laugh,  the  big  fellow 
reached  out  his  great  hand  and  the  shining  toy  went 
whirling  through  the  air.  "Go  home,"  said  the  giant. 
"Damn  you,  go  home !  Don't  you  hear  ?  For  God's 
sake  get  out  o'  my  sight  'fore  I  forget  again !" 

Ollie  went. 


214 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

OLLIE'S  DILEMMA. 

S  "Preachin'  Bill"  used  to  say,  "Every 
hound  has  hits  strong  pints,  but  some  has 
more  of  7em." 

Young  Stewart  was  not  without 
graces  pleasing  to  the  girl  whom  he  hoped  to  make  his 
wife.  He  seemed  to  know  instinctively  all  those  little 
attentions  in  which  women  so  delight,  and  he  could 
talk,  too,  very  entertainingly  of  the  things  he  had 
seen.  To  the  simple  girl  of  the  backwoods,  he  suc 
ceeded  in  making  the  life  in  the  city  appear  very  won 
derful,  indeed.  Neither  was  Sammy  insensible  to  the 
influence  of  his  position,  and  his  prospective  wealth, 
with  the  advantages  that  these  things  offered.  Then, 
with  all  this,  he  loved  her  dearly;  and  when,  if  you 
please,  was  ever  a  woman  wholly  unmoved  by  the 
knowledge  that  she  held  first  place  in  a  man's  heart  ? 
For  two  weeks  they  were  together  nearly  every  day, 
sometimes  spending  the  afternoon  at  the  girl's  home 
on  the  side  of  Dewey,  or  roving  over  the  nearby 
hills;  sometimes  going  for  long  rides  through  the 
great  woods  to  pass  the  day  with  friends,  returning 
in  the  evening  to  find  Jim  smoking  in  the 
of  the  darkened  cabin. 

215 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

When  Mr.  Lane,  at  the  end  of  the  first  week,  asked 
his  daughter,  in  his  point  blank  fashion,  what  she  was 
going  to  do  with  young  Stewart,  the  girl  answered, 
"He  must  have  his  chance,  Daddy.  He  must  have 
a  good  fair  chance.  I — I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but 
there  is — I — I  don't  know,  Daddy.  I  am  sure  I 
loved  him  when  he  went  away,  that  is,  I  think  I  am 
sure."  And  Jim,  looking  into  her  eyes,  agreed  heart 
ily;  then  he  took  down  his  violin  to  make  joyful 
music  far  into  the  night. 

Ollie  did  not  see  Young  Matt  after  their  meeting 
on  the  Lookout.  The  big  fellow,  too,  avoided  the 
couple,  and  Sammy,  for  some  reason,  carefully  plan 
ned  their  rides  so  that  they  would  not  be  likely  to 
meet  their  neighbor  on  the  ridge.  Once,  indeed, 
they  called  at  the  Matthews  place,  walking  over  in 
the  evening,  but  that  was  when  Sammy  knew  that 
Young  Matt  was  not  at  home. 

Day  after  day  as  they  talked  together,  the  girl 
tried  honestly  to  enter  into  the  life  of  the  man  she 
had  promised  to  marry.  But  always  there  was  that 
feeling  of  something  lacking.  Just  what  that  some 
thing  was,  or  why  she  could  not  feel  completely  satis 
fied,  Sammy  did  not  understand.  But  the  day  was 
soon  to  come  when  she  would  know  the  real  impulses 
of  her  heart. 

Since  that  first  afternoon,  Ollie  had  not  tried  to 
force  his  suit.  While,  in  a  hundred  little  ways,  he 

216 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

had  not  failed  to  make  her  feel  his  love,  he  had  never 
openly  attempted  the  role  of  lover.  He  was  con 
scious  that  to  put  the  girl  constantly  upon  the  de 
fensive  would  be  disastrous  to  his  hopes;  and  in 
this,  he  was  wise.  But  the  time  had  come  when  he 
must  speak,  for  it  was  the  last  day  of  his  visit.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  go  back  to  the  city  without  a 
definite  understanding. 

Sammy,  too,  realized  this,  but  still  she  was  not 
ready  to  give  an  answer  to  the  question  he  would 
ask.  They  had  been  to  the  Forks,  and  were  on  their 
way  home.  As  they  rode  slowly  under  the  trees,  the 
man  pleaded  his  cause,  but  the  woman  could  only 
shake  her  head  and  answer  quite  truthfully,  "Ollie, 
I  don't  know." 

"But  tell  me,  Sammy,  is  there  any  one  in  the 
way  ?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head,  "I — I  think  not." 

"You  think  not !  Don't  you  know  ?"  The  young 
man  reined  kis  horse  closer  to  tke  brown  pony. 
"Let  me  help  you  decide,  dear.  You  are  troubled 
because  of  the  change  you  see  in  me,  and  because 
the  life  that  I  have  tried  to  tell  you  about  is  so 
strange,  so  different  from  this.  You  need  not  fear. 
With  me,  you  will  very  soon  be  at  home  there;  as 
much  at  home  as  you  are  here.  Come,  dear,  let  me 
answer  for  you." 

The  girl  lifted  her  face  to  his;  "Oh,  if  you  only 
217 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

could!"  But,  even  as  she  spoke,  there  came  to  her 
the  memory  of  that  ride  home  from  the  party  at 
Ford's  when  her  pony  had  crowded  close  to  the  hig 
white  faced  sorrel.  It  was  Brownie  this  time  who 
was  pulled  sharply  aside.  The  almost  involuntary 
act  brought  a  quick  flush  to  the  young  man's  cheek, 
and  he  promptly  reined  his  own  horse  to  the  right, 
thus  placing  the  full  width  of  the  road  between  them. 
So  they  went  down  the  hill  into  the  valley,  where 
Fall  Creek  tumbled  and  laughed  on  its  rocky  way. 

A  thread  of  blue  smoke,  curling  lazily  up  from  the 
old  stack,  and  the  sound  of  a  hammer,  told  them  that 
some  one  was  at  the  mill.  Sammy  was  caught  by  a 
sudden  impulse.  "Why,  that  must  be  Young  Matt !" 
she  exclaimed.  "Let  us  stop.  I  do  believe  you 
haven't  seem  him  since  you  came  home." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him,  nor  any  one  else,  now," 
returned.  Ollie.  "This  is  our  last  evening  together, 
Sammy,  and  I  want  you  all  to  myself.  Let  us  go  up 
the  old  Rbark  trail,  around  Cox's  Bald,  and  home 
through  the  big,  low  gap."  He  checked  his  horse 
as  he  spoke,  for  they  had  already  passed  the  point 
where  the  Roark  trail  leaves  Fall  Creek. 

But  the  girl  was  determined  to  follow  her  impulse. 
"You  can  stop  just  a  minute,"  she  urged.  "You 
really  ought  to  see  Matt,  you  know.  We  can  ride 
back  this  way  if  you  like.  It's  early  yet." 

But  the  man  held  his  place,  and  replied  shortly, 
218 


HEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  want  to  see  anybody,  and  I  am 
very  sure  that  Young  Matt  doesn't  want  to  see  me, 
not  with  you,  anyway." 

Sammy  flushed  at  this,  and  answered  with  some 
warmth,  "There  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  you 
should  refuse  to  meet  an  old  friend ;  but  you  may  do 
as  you  please,  of  course.  Only  I  am  going  to  the 
mill."  So  saying,  she  started  down  the  valley,  and  as 
there  was  really  nothing  else  for  him  to  do,  the  man 
followed. 

As  they  approached  the  mill,  Sammy  called  for 
Young  Matt,  who  immediately  left  his  work,  and 
came  to  them.  The  big  fellow  wore  no  coat,  and  his 
great  arms  were  bare,  while  his  old  shirt,  patched  and 
faded  and  patched  again,  was  soiled  by  engine  grease 
and  perspiration.  His  trousers,  too,  held  in  place  by 
suspenders  repaired  with  belt  lacing  and  fastened 
with  a  nail,  were  covered  with  sawdust  and  dirt.  His 
hands  and  arms  and  even  his  face  were  treated  lib 
erally  with  the  same  mixture  that  stained  his  cloth 
ing;  and  the  shaggy  red  brown  hair,  uncovered,  was 
sadly  tumbled.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  wrench.  The 
morrow  was  grinding  day,  and  he  had  been  making 
some  repairs  about  the  engine. 

Altogether,  as  the  backwoodsman  came  forward,  he 
presented  a  marked  contrast  to  the  freshly  clad,  well 
groomed  gentleman  from  the  city.  And  to  the 
woman,  the  contrast  was  not  without  advantages  to 

fctfl 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  man  in  the  good  clothes.  The  thought  flashed 
through  her  mind  that  the  men  who  would  work  for 
Ollie  in  the  shops  would  look  like  this.  It  was  the 
same  old  advantage;  the  advantage  that  the  captain 
has  over  the  private;  the  advantage  of  rank,  regard 
less  of  worth. 

Sammy  greeted  Young  Matt  warmly.  "I  just  told 
Ollie  that  it  was  too  bad  he  had  not  seen  you.  You 
were  away  the  night  we  called  at  your  house,  you 
know :  and  he  is  going  home  tomorrow." 

The  giant  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Evi 
dently  Sammy  had  not  heard  of  that  meeting  at  the 
Lookout,  and  Stewart's  face  grew  red  as  he  saw  what 
was  in  the  big  fellow's  mind.  "I'm  mighty  glad  to 
see  you  again,"  he  said  lamely.  "I  told  Sammy  that 
I  had  seen  you,  but  she  has  forgotten." 

"Oh,  no,  I  haven't,"  replied  the  girl.  "You  said 
that  you  saw  him  in  the  field  as  you  passed  the  first 
day  you  came,  but  that  you  were  in  such  a  hurry 
you  didn't  stop." 

At  this  Ollie  forced  a  loud  laugh,  and  remarked 
that  he  was  in  something  of  a  hurry  that  day.  He 
hoped  that  in  the  girl's  confusion  the  point  might  be 
overlooked. 

But  the  mountaineer  was  not  to  be  sidetracked  so 
easily.  Ollie's  poor  attempt  only  showed  more  clearly 
that  he  had  purposely  refrained  from  telling  Sammy 


920 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  the  night  when  Young  Matt  had  interfered  to  save 
his  life.  To  the  simple  straight-forward  lad  of  the 
woods,  such  a  course  revealed  a  spirit  most  contempt 
ible.  Raising  his  soiled  hands  and  looking  straight 
at  Ollie,  he  said,  deliberately,  "I?m  sorry,  seein'  as 
this  is  the  first  time  we've  met,  that  I  can't  shake 
hands  with  you.  This  here's  clean  dirt,  though." 

Sammy  was  puzzled.  Ollie's  objection  to  their 
calling  at  the  mill,  his  evident  embarrassment  at  the 
meeting,  and  something  in  Young  Matt's  'voice  that 
hinted  at  a  double  meaning  in  his  simple  words,  all 
told  her  that  there  was  something  beneath  the  surface 
which  she  did  not  understand. 

After  his  one  remark  to  her  escort,  the  woodsman 
turned  to  the  girl,  and,  in  spite  of  Sammy's  persist 
ent  attempts  to  bring  the  now  sullen  Ollie  into  the 
conversation,  ignored  the  man  completely.  When 
they  had  talked  for  a  few  moments,  Young  Matt  said, 
"I  reckon  you'll  have  to  excuse  me  a  minute,  Sammy ; 
I  left  the  engine  in  such  a  hurry  when  you  called 
that  I'll  have  to  look  at  it  again.  It  won't  take  more'n 
a  minute." 

As  he  disappeared  in  the  mill  shed,  the  young 
tedy  turned  to  her  companion,  "What's  the  matter 
with  you  two?  Have  you  met  and  quarreled  since 
X>u  came  home  ?" 

Fat<?  was  being  very  unkind  to  Ollie.     He  replied 


221 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

gruffly,  "You'll  have  to  ask  your  friend.  I  told  you 
how  it  vould  be.  The  greasy  hobo  doesn't  like  to 
see  me  \vith  you,  and  hasn't  manners  enough  even  to 
hide  Ir-s  feelings.  Come,  let  us  go  on." 

A  .ook  that  was  really  worth  seeing  came  into  the 
girl's  fine  eyes,  but  she  only  said  calmly,  "Matt  will 
be  back  in  a  minute." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  we  should  go.  I  should 
think  you  have  had  enough.  I  am  sure  I  have." 

The  young  woman  was  determined  now  to  know 
what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  all  this.  She  said  quietly, 
but  with  a  great  deal  of  decision,  "You  may  go  on 
home  if  you  wish;  I  am  going  to  wait  here  until 
Young  Matt  comes  back." 

Ollie  was  angry  now  in  good  earnest.  He  had 
not  told  Sammy  of  the  incident  at  the  Lookout  be 
cause  he  felt  that  the  story  would  bring  the  back 
woodsman  into  a  light  altogether  too  favorable.  He 
thought  to  have  the  girl  safely  won  before  he  left  the 
hills;  then  it  would  not  matter.  That  Young  Matt 
would  have  really  saved  Ollie's  life  at  the  risk  of  his 
own  there  was  no  doubt.  And  Stevart  realized  that 
his  silence  under  such  circumstances  would  look  de 
cidedly  small  and  ungrateful  to  the  girl.  To  have 
the  story  told  at  this  critical  moment  was  altogether 
worse  than  if  he  had  generously  told  of  the  incident 
at  once.  He  saw,  too,  that  Sammy  guessed  at  some- 


222 


THE  SHEPHEliD  OF  THE  HILLS 

thing  beneath  the  surface,  and  he  felt  uneasy  in  re 
maining  until  Young  Matt  came  back  to  renew  the 
conversation.  And  yet  he  feared  to  leave.  At  this 
stage  of  his  dilemma,  he  was  relieved  from  his  plight 
ijj  a  very  unexpected  manner. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 
THE  CHAMPION, 

BIG  wagon,  with  two  men  on  the  seat, 
appeared  coming  up  the  valley  road.  It 
was  Wash  Gibbs  and  a  crony  from  the 
river.  They  had  stopped  at  the  dis 
tillery  on  their  way,  and  were  just  enough  under  the 
influence  of  drink  to  be  funny  and  reckless. 

When  they  caught  sight  of  Ollie  Stewart  and  Miss 
Lane,  Wash  said  something  to  his  companion,  at 
which  both  laughed  uproariously.  Upon  reaching  the 
couple,  the  wagon  came  to  a  stop,  and  after  looking 
at  Ollie  for  some  moments,  with  the  silent  gravity  of 
an  owl,  Gibbs  turned  to  the  young  lady,  "Howdy, 
honey.  Where  did  you  git  that  there?  Did  you? 
paw  give  hit  to  you  fer  a  doll  baby  ?" 

Young  Stewart's  face  grew  scarlet,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"Can't  hit  talk?"  continued  Gibbs  with  mock  in 
terest. 

Glancing  at  her  frightened  escort,  the  girl  replied 
"You  drive  on,  Wash  Gibbs.    You're  in  no  condition 
to  talk  to  anyone." 

An  ugly  leer  came  over  the  brutal  face  of  thc: 
giant ;  "Oh,  I  ain't,  ain't  1  ?  You  think  I'm  drunk 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

But  I  ain't,  not  so  mighty  much.  Jest  enough  t' 
perten  me  up  a  pepper  grain."  Then,  turning  to  his 
companion,  who  was  grinning  in  appreciation  of  the 
scene,  he  continued,  "Here,  Bill ;  you  hold  th'  rib- 
bens,  an'  watch  me  tend  t'  that  little  job  I  told  you  I 
laid  out  t'  do  fiist  chance  I  got."  At  this,  Ollie  grew 
as  pale  as  death.  Once  he  started  as  if  to  escape,  but 
he  could  not  under  Sammy's  eyes. 

As  Wash  was  climbing  down  from  the  wagon,  he 
caught  sight  of  Young  Matt  standing  in  the  door  of 
the  mill  shed.  "Hello,  Matt,"  he  called  cheerfully ; 
"I  ain't  a  lookin'  fer  you  t'  day;  'tend  t'  you  some 
other  time.  Got  more  important  business  jest  now." 

Young  Matt  made  no  reply,  nor  did  he  move  to 
interfere.  In  the  backwoods  every  man  must  fight 
his  own  battles,  so  long  as  he  fights  with  men.  When 
Stewart  was  in  danger  from  the  panther,  it  was  dif 
ferent.  This  was  man  to  man.  Sammy,  too,  reared 
in  the  mountains,  and  knowing  the  code,  waited 
quietly  to  see  what  her  lover  would  do. 

Coming  to  Ollie's  side,  Gibbs  said,  "Git  down, 
young  feller,  an'  look  at  yer  saddle." 

"You  go  on,  and  let  me  alone,  Wash  Gibbs.  I've 
never  hurt  you."  Ollie's  naturally  high  pitched  voice 
was  shrill  with  fear. 

Wash  paused,  looked  back  at  his  companion  in  the 
wagon-  then  to  Young  Matt,  and  then  to  the  girl  on 
the  horse.  "That's  right,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

with  ponderous  gravity.  "You  all  hear  him.  He 
ain't  never  hurted  me,  nary  a  bit.  Nary  a  bit,  ladies 
an'  gentlemen.  But,  good  Lord !  look  at  him !  Hain't 
hit  awful  ?"  Suddenly  he  reached  out  one  great  arm, 
and  jerked  the  young  man  from  his  horse,  catching 
him  with  the  other  hand  as  he  fell,  and  setting  him 
on  his  feet  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

Ollie  was  like  a  child  in  the  grasp  of  his  huge  tor* 
mentor,  and,  in  spite  of  her  indignation,  a  look  of 
admiration  flashed  over  Sammy's  face  at  the  ex 
hibition  of  the  bully's  wonderful  physical  strength; 
an  admiration,  that  only  heightened  the  feeling  of 
shame  for  her  lover's  weakness. 

Gibbs  addressed  his  victim,  "Now,  dolly,  you  an* 
me's  goin'  t'  play  a  little.  Come  on,  let's  see  you 
dance."  The  other  struggled  feebly  a  moment  and 
attempted  to  draw  a  pistol,  whereupon  Wash 
promptly  captured  the  weapon,  remarking  in  a  sad 
tone  as  he  did  so,  "You  hadn't  ought  t'  tote  such  a 
gun  as  that,  sonny;  hit  might  go  off.  Hit's  a  right 
pretty  little  thing,  ain't  hit?"  he  continued,  holding 
his  victim  with  one  hand,  and  examining  the  pearl 
handled,  nickel  plated  weapon  with  great  interest. 
"Hit  sure  is.  But  say,  dolly,  if  you  was  ever  t'  shoot 
rne  with  that  there,  an*  I  found  hit  out,  I'd  sure  be 
powerful  mad.  You  hear  me,  now,  an'  don't  you  pack 
that  gun  no  more ;  not  in  these  mountains.  Hit  aiu't 
safe," 

226 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  fellow  in  the  wagon  roared  with  delight  at 
these  witticisms,  and  looked  from  Young  Matt  to 
Sammy  to  see  if  they  also  appreciated  the  joke. 

"Got  any  more  pretties  ?"  asked  Gibbs  of  his  vic 
tim.  "!N^o  ?  Let's  see."  Catching  the  young  man  by 
the  waist,  he  lifted  him  bodily,  and,  holding  him 
head  downward,  shook  him  roughly.  Again  Sammy 
felt  her  blood  tingle  at  the  feat  of  strength. 

!N"ext  holding  Ollie  with  one  huge  hand  at  the  back 
of  his  neck,  Wash  said,  "See  that  feller  in  th'  wagon 
there?  He's  a  mighty  fine  gentleman;  friend  o' 
mine.  Make  a  bow  t'  him."  As  he  finished,  with 
his  free  hand  he  struck  the  young  man  a  sharp  blow 
in  the  stomach,  with  the  result  that  Stewart  did  make 
a  bow,  very  low,  but  rather  too  suddenly  to  be  grace 
ful. 

The  fellow  in  the  wagon  jumped  up  and  bowed 
again  and  again;  "Howdy,  Mr.  City  Man;  howdy. 
Mighty  proud  t'  meet  up  with  you;  mighty  proud, 
you  bet  I" 

The  giant  whirled  his  captive  toward  the  milL 
*See  that  feller  yonder  ?  I'm  goin'  t'  lick  him  some 
day.  Make  a  face  at  him."  Catching  Ollie  by  the 
nose  and  chin,  he  tried  to  force  his  bidding,  while 
the  man  in  the  wagon  made  the  valley  ring  with  hia 
laughter.  Then  Wash  suddenly  faced  the  helpless 
young  man  toward  Sammy.  "Now  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen,"  he  said  in  the  tones  of  a  showman  addressr 

227 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

ing  an  audience,  "this  here  pretty  little  feller  from 
th'  city's  goin'  t'  show  us  Hill-Billies  how  t9  spark 
a  gal." 

The  bully's  friend  applauded  loudly,  roaring  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  "Marry  'em,  Wash.  Marry  'em. 
You  can  do  hit  as  good  as  a  parson !  You'd  make  a 
good  parson.  Let's  see  how'd  you  go  at  hit." 

The  notion  tickled  the  fancy  of  the  giant,  for  it 
offered  a  way  to  make  Sammy  share  the  humiliation 
more  fully.  "Git  down  an'  come  here  t'  yer  honey," 
he  said  to  the  girl.  "Git  down,  I  say,"  he  repeated, 
when  the  young  woman  made  no  motion  to  obey. 

"Indeed,  I  will  not,"  replied  Sammy  shortly. 

Her  tone  and  manner  angered  Gibbs,  and  drop 
ping  Ollie  he  started  toward  the  girl  to  take  her  from 
the  horse  by  force.  As  he  reached  the  pony's  side, 
Sammy  raised  her  whip  and  with  all  her  strength 
struck  him  full  across  the  face.  The  big  ruffian  drew 
back  with  a  bellow  of  pain  and  anger.  Then  he 
started  toward  her  again.  "I'll  tame  y»u,  you  wild 
cat,"  ke  yelled.  And  Sammy  raised  her  whip  again. 

But  before  Gibbs  could  touch  the  girl,  a  powerful 
hand  caught  him  fey  tke  skoulder.  "I  reckon  you've 
had  fun  enough,  Wash  Gibbs,"  remarked  Young  Matt 
in  his  slow  way.  "I  ain't  interfering  between  man 
and  man,  but  you'd  best  keep  your  dirty  hands  ofi 
that  lady." 

The  young  woman's  heart  leaped  at  the  sound  of 
228 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

that  deep  calm  voice  that  carried  such  a  suggestion 
of  power.  And  she  saw  that  the  blue  eyes  under 
the  tumbled  red  brown  locks  were  shining  now  like 
points  of  polished  steel.  The  strong  man's  soul  was 
rejoicing  with  the  fierce  joy  of  battle. 

The  big  bully  drew  back  a  step,  and  glared  at  the 
man  who  had  come  between  him  and  his  victim;  the 
man  whom,  for  every  reason,  he  hated.  Lifting  his 
huge  paws,  he  said  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  deadly 
menace,  "Dirty,  be  they?  By  hell,  I'll  wash  'em. 
An'  hit  won't  be  water  that'll  clean  'em,  neither. 
Don't  you  know  that  no  man  ever  crosses  my  trail  an' 
lives  I" 

The  other  returned  easily,  "Oh,  shucks !  Get  into 
your  wagon  and  drive  on.  You  0in?t  on  Roark  now. 
You're  on  Fall  Creek,  and  over  here  you  ain't  no 
bigger'n  anybody  else." 

While  Young  Matt  was  speaking,  Gibbs  backed 
slowly  away,  and,  as  the  young  man  finished,  sud 
denly  drew  the  pistol  he  had  taken  from  Ollie.  With 
a  quickness  and  lightness  astonishing  in  one  of  his 
bulk  and  usually  slow  movements,  the  mountaineer 
leaped  upon  his  big  enemy.  There  was  a  short,  sharp 
struggle,  and  Wash  staggered  backward,  leaving  the 
shining  weapon  in  Young  Matt's  hand.  "It  might  go 
off,  you  know,"  said  the  young  fellow  quietly,  as  he 
tossed  the  gun  on  the  ground  at  Ollie's  feet. 

With  a  mad  roar,  Gibbs  recovered  himself  and 
229 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

rushed  at  his  antagonist.  It  was  a  terrific  struggle; 
not  the  skillful  sparring  of  trained  fighters,  but  the 
rough  and  tumble  battling  of  primitive  giants.  It 
was  the  climax  of  long  months  of  hatred ;  the  meeting 
of  two  who  were  by  every  instinct  mortal  enemies. 
Ollie  shrank  back  in  terror,  but  Sammy  leaned  for 
ward  in  the  saddle,  her  beautiful  figure  tense,  her 
lips  parted,  and  her  face  flushed  with  excitement. 

It  was  soon  evident  that  the  big  champion  of  the 
hills  had  at  last  met  his  match.  As  he  realized  this. 
a  look  of  devilish  cunning  crept  into  the  animal  face 
of  Gibbs,  and  he  maneuvered  carefully  to  bring  hi* 
enemy's  back  toward  the  wagon. 

Catching  a  look  from  his  friend,  over  Young 
Matt's  shoulder,  the  man  in  the  wagon  slipped1 
quickly  to  the  ground,  and  Sammy  saw  with  horror 
a  naked  knife  in  his  hand.  She  glanced  toward  Ollie 
appealingly,  but  that  gentleman  was  helpless.  The 
man  with  the  knife  began  creeping  cautiously  toward 
the  fighting  men,  keeping  always  behind  Young  Matt. 
The  young  woman  felt  as  though  an  iron  band  held 
her  fast.  She  could  not  move.  She  could  not  speaks 
Then  Gibbs  went  down,  and  the  girl's  scream  rang 
out,  "Behind  you,  Matt!  Look  quick!" 

As  he  recovered  his  balance  from  the  effort  that 
had  thrown  Wash,  Young  Matt  heard  her  cry,  saw 
the  girl's  look  of  horror,  and  her  outstretched  hand 
pointing.  Like  a  flash  he  whirled  just  as  the  knife 

230 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

was  lifted  high  for  the  murderous  blow.  It  was  over 
in  an  instant.  Sammy  saw  him  catch  the  wrist  of  the 
uplifted  arm,  heard  a  dull  snap  and  a  groan,  saw  the 
knife  fall  from  the  helpless  hand,  and  then  saw  the 
man  lifted  bodily  and  thrown  clear  over  the  wagon, 
to  fall  helpless  on  the  rocky  ground.  The  woman 
gave  a  low  cry,  "Oh,  what  a  man!" 

Wash  Gibbs,  too,  opened  his  eyes,  just  in  time  to 
witness  the  unheard-of  feat,  and  to  see  the  bare- 
armed  young  giant  who  performed  it  turn  again, 
breathing  heavily  with  his  great  exertion,  but  still 
ready  to  meet  his  big  antagonist. 

The  defeated  bully  rose  from  the  ground.  The 
other  stepped  forward  to  meet  him.  But  without  a 
word,  Gibbs  climbed  into  the  wagon  and  took  up  the 
reins.  Before  they  could  move,  Young  Matt  had  the 
mules  by  their  heads.  "You  have  forgotten  some 
thing,"  he  said  quietly,  pointing  to  the  man  on  the 
ground,  who  was  still  unconscious  from  his  terrible 
fall.  "That  there's  your  property.  Take  it  along. 
We  ain't  got  no  use  for  such  as  that  on  Fall  Creek." 

Sullenly  Wash  climbed  down  and  lifted  his  com 
panion  into  the  wagon.  As  Young  Matt  stood  aside 
•to  let  him  go,  the  bully  said,  "I'll  see  you  agin  fer 
this." 

The  strong  man  only  answered,  "I  reckon  you'd 
better  stay  on  Roark,  Wash  Gibbs.  You  got  more 
room  there." 

231 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
WHAT  PETE  TOLD  SAMMY. 

7\VIO  word  was  spoken  by  either  Sammy  or 

XT  NC  her  lover,  while  their  horses  were  climb- 
ft  ing  the  mill  road,  and  both  were  glad 
*&  when  they  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
and  turned  into  the  narrow  path  where  they  would 
need  to  ride  one  before  the  other.  It  was  not  easy 
to  ride  side  by  side,  when  each  was  busy  with 
thoughts  not  to  be  spoken. 

At  the  gate,  Ollie  dismounted  to  help  the  girl  from 
her  horse.  But  before  he  could  reach  the  pony's 
side,  Sammy  sprang  lightly  to  the  ground,  unassistedr 
Opening  the  big  gate,  she  turned  Brownie  loose  in 
the  yard,  while  the  man  stood  watching  her,  a  baffled 
look  upon  his  face.  He  had  always  done  these  little 
things  for  her.  To  be  refused  at  this  time  was  not 
pleasant.  The  feeling  that  he  was  on  the  outside 
grew  stronger. 

Turning  to  his  own  horse,  Ollie  placed  his  foot 
in  the  stirrup  to  mount,  when  Sammy  spoke, — per 
haps  she  felt  that  she  had  been  a  little  unkind — "You 
were  going  to  stay  to  supper,"  she  said. 

"Not  tonight,"  he  answered,  gaining  his  seat  in 
the  saddle,  and  picking  up  the  reins. 

232 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"But  you  are  going  to  leave  in  the  morning,  are 
you  not  ?  You — you  must  not  go  like  this." 

He  dropped  the  reins  to  the  horse's  neck  again, 
"Look  here,  Sammy,  do  you  blame  me  because  I  did 
not  fight  that  big  bully  ?" 

Sammy  did  not  reply. 

"What  could  1  do  ?  You  know  there  is  not  another 
man  in  the  mountains  beside  Young  Matt  who  could 
have  done  it.  Surely  you  cannot  blame  me." 

The  young  woman  moved  uneasily,  "]N"o,  certainly 
not.  I  do  not  blame  you  in  the  least.  I — but 
it  was  very  fortunate  that  Young  Matt  was  there, 
wasn't  it?"  The  last  sentence  slipped  out  before 
she  knew. 

Ollie  retorted  angrily,  "It  seems  to  be  very  for 
tunate  for  him.  He  will  be  a  greater  hero  than  ever, 
now,  I  suppose.  If  he  is  wise,  he  will  stay  in  the 
backwoods  to  be  worshipped  for  he'll  find  that  his 
size  won't  count  for  much  in  the  world.  He's  a  great 
man  here,  where  he  can  fight  like  a  beast,  but  his 
style  wouldn't  go  far  where  brains  are  of  value.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  see  him  in  town;  a  man  who 
never  saw  a  railroad." 

Sammy  lifted  her  head  quickly  at  this,  and  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  man's  face  with  that  wide,  question 
ing  gaze  that  reminded  one  so  of  her  father,  "I  never 
saw  a  railroad,  either;  not  that  I  can  remember; 
though,  I  suppose  we  must  have  crossed  one  or  two 

233 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

on  our  way  to  Texas  when  I  was  a  baby.  Is  it  the 
railroads  then  that  makes  one  so — so  superior?" 

The  man  turned  impatiently  in  the  saddle,  "You 
know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  slowly.  "I  think  I  do  know, 
what  you  mean." 

Ollie  lifted  the  reins  again  from  his  horse's  neck, 
and  fingered  them  nervously.  "I'd  better  go  now; 
there's  no  use  talking  about  this  tonight.  I  won't 
leave  in  the  morning,  as  I  had  planned.  I — I  can't 
go  like  this."  There  was  a  little  catch  in  his  voice. 
"May  I  come  again  tomorrow  afternoon,  Sammy?" 

"Yes,  you  had  better  go  now,  and  come  back  to 
morrow." 

"And  Sammy,  won't  you  try  to  think  that  I  am  not 
altogether  worthless,  even  if  I  am  not  big  enough  to 
fight  Wash  Gibbs?  You  are  sure  that  you  do  not 
blame  me  for  what  happened  at  the  mill  ?" 

"No,"  she  said;  "of  course  not.  You  could  not 
help  it.  Why  should  I  blame  anyone  for  that  which 
he  cannot  help  ?" 

Then  Ollie  rode  away,  and  Sammy,  going  to  her 
pony,  stood  petting  the  little  horse,  while  she  watched 
her  lover  up  the  Old  Trail,  and  still  there  was  that 
wide,  questioning  look  in  her  eyes.  As  Ollie  passed 
from  sight  around  the  hill  above,  the  girl  slipped  out 
of  the  gate,  and  a  few  minutes  later  stood  at  the  Look 
out,  where  she  could  watch  her  lover  riding  along  the 

234 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  TIl^  HILLS 

ridge.  She  saw  him  pass  from  the  open  into  th$ 
fringe  of  timber  near  the  big  gap;  and,  a  few  min 
utes  later,  saw  him  reappear  beyond  the  deer  lick. 
Still  she  watched  as  he  moved  along  the  rim  o  the 
Hollow,  looking  in  the  distance  like  a  toy  man  on  a 
toy  horse;  watched  until  he  passed  from  sight  into 
the  timber  again,  ard  was  gone.  And  all  the  time 
that  questioning  look  was  in  her  eyes. 

Did  she  blame  Ollie  that  he  had  played  so  poorly 
his  part  in  the  scene  at  the  mill.  !N~o,  she  told  herself 
over  and  over  again,  as  though  repeating  a  lesson; 
no,  Ollie  was  not  to  blame,  and  yet — 

She  knew  that  he  had  spoken  truly  when  he  said 
that  there  were  things  that  counted  foi  ^nore  than 
brute  strength.  But  was  there  not  something  more 
than  brute  strength  in  the  '.ncident?  Was  there  not 
that  which  lay  deeper  ?  something  of  which  the  brute 
strength,  after  all,  was  only  an  expression  ?  The  girl 
stamped  her  foot  impatiently,  as  she  exclaimed  aloud, 
"Oh,  why  did  he  not  try  to  do  something  ?  He 
should  have  forced  Wash  Gibbs  to  beat  him  into  in 
sensibility  rather  than  to  have  submitted  so  tamely 
to  being  played  with." 

In  the  distance  she  saw  the  shepherd  following  his 
flock  down  the  mountain,  and  the  old  scholar,  who 
always  watched  the  Lookout,  when  in  the  vicinity,  for 
a  glimpse  of  his  pupil,  waved  his  hand  in  greeting 
as  he  moved  slowly  on  after  his  charges.  It  was 

235 


THE  SFEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

growing  late.  Her  father,  too,  would  be  coming  home 
for  his  supper.  But  as  she  rose  to  go,  a  step  on  the 
mountain  side  above  caught  her  attention,  and,  look 
ing  up,  she  saw  Pete  coming  toward  the  big  rock. 
Sammy  greeted  the  youth  kindly,  "I  haven't  seen 
Pete  for  days  and  days ;  where  has  he  been  ?" 

"Pete's  been  everywhere ;  an'  course  I've  been  with 
him,"  replied  the  lad  with  his  wide,  sweeping  gesture. 
Then  throwing  himself  at  full  length  at  the  girl's 
feet,  he  said,  abruptly,  "Pete  was  here  that  night,  and 
God,  he  was  here,  too.  Couldn't  nobody  else  but  God 
o'  done  it.  The  gun  went  bang,  and  a  lot  more  guns 
went  bang,  bang,  all  along  the  mountains.  And  the 
moonlight  things  that  was  a  dancin'  quit  'cause  they 
was  scared ;  and  that  panther  it  just  doubled  up  and 
died.  Matt  and  Ollie  wasn't  hurted  nary  a  bit. 
Pete  says  it  was  God  done  that ;  He  was  sure  in  the 
hills  that  night." 

Sammy  was  startled.  "Matt  and  Ollie,  a  panther  ? 
What  do  you  mean,  boy  ?" 

The  troubled  look  shadowed  the  delicate  face,  as 
the  lad  shook  his  head ;  "Don't  mean  nothin',  Sammy, 
not  me.  Nobody  can't  mean  nothin',  can  they  ?" 

"But  what  does  Pete  mean  ?  Does  Pete  know 
about  it  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  course  Pete  knows  everything.  Don't 
Sammy  know  'bout  that  night  when  God  was  in  the 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

hills  ?"  He  was  eager  now,  with  eyes  wide  and  face 
aglow. 

"No,"  said  Sammy,  "I  do  not  know.  Will  Pete 
tell  i  le  all  about  it  ?" 

.The  strange  youth  seated  himself  on  the  rock,  fac 
ing  the  valley  below,  saying  in  a  low  tone,  "Ollie 
was  a  settin'  like  this,  all  still;  just  a  smokin'  and 
a  watchin'  the  moonlight  things  that  was  dancin' 
over  the  tops  of  the  trees  down  there."  Then  leaping 
to  his  feet  the  boy  ran  a  short  way  along  the  ledge, 
to  come  stealing  back,  crouching  low,  as  he  whis 
pered,  "It  come  a  creepin'  and  a  creepin'  towards 
Ollie,  and  he  never  knowed  nothin'  about  it.  But 
Matt  he  knowed,  and  God  he  knowed.  too."  Won- 
deringly,  the  girl  watched  his  movement.  Suddenly 
he  sprang  to  the  rock  again,  and  facing  the  imaginary 
beast,  cried  in  childish  imitation  of  a  man's  deep 
voice,  "Get  out  of  the  way.  This  here's  my  fight." 
Then  in  his  own  tones,  "It  was  sure  scared  when 
Young  Matt  jumped  on  the  rock.  Everything's 
scared  of  Matt  when  he  talks  like  that.  It  was  mad, 
too,  'cause  Matt  he  wouldn't  let  it  get  Ollie.  And 
it  got  ready  to  jump  at  Matt,  and  Matt  he  got  ready 
for  a  tussle,  and  Ollie  he  got  out  of  the  way.  And  all 
the  moonlight  things  stopped  dancin',  and  the  shadow 
things  come  out  to  see  the  fight."  He  had  lowered 
his  voice  again  almost  to  a  whisper.  Sammy  was 


237 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

breathless.  "Bang!"  cried  the  lad,  clapping  his  hands 
and  shouting  the  words;  "Bang!  Bang!  God,  he 
fired  and  all  the  guns  in  the  hills  went  off,  and  that 
panther  it  just  doubled  up  and  died.  It  would  sure 
got  Ollie,  though,  if  Matt  hadn't  a  jumped  on  the 
rock  when  he  did.  But  do  you  reckon  it  could  o'  got 
Matt,  if  God  hadn't  been  here  that  night  ?" 

It  was  all  too  clearly  portrayed  to  be  mistaken. 
"Sammy  needn't  be  afeared,"  continued  Pete,  seeing 
the  look  on  the  girl's  face.  "It  can't  come  back  no 
more.  It  just  naturally  can't,  you  know,  Sammy, 
'cause  God  he  killed  it  plumb  dead.  And  Pete  drag 
ged  it  way  over  on  yon  side  of  the  ridge  and  the  buz 
zards  got  it" 


333 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

JIM  LANE  MAKES  A  PROMISE. 

f AMMY  went  home  to  find  her  father  get 
ting  supper.  Rushing  into  the  cabin, 
the  girl  gave  him  a  hug  that  caused  Jim 
to  nearly  drop  the  coffee  pot.  "You  poor 
abused  Daddy,  to  come  home  from  work,  all  tired 
and  find  no  supper,  no  girl,  no  nothing.  Sit  right 
down  there,  now,  and  rest,  while  I  finish  things." 

Jim  obeyed  with  a  grin  of  appreciation.  "I  didn't 
fix  no  taters ;  thought  you  wasn't  comin'." 

"Going  to  starve  yourself,  were  you  ?  just  because 
I  was  gone,"  replied  the  girl  with  a  pan  of  potatoes 
in  her  hand.  "I  see  right  now  that  I  will  have 
to  take  care  of  you  always — always,  Daddy  Jim." 

The  smile  suddenly  left  the  man's  face.  "Where's 
Ollie  Stewart  ?  Didn't  he  come  home  with  you  ?" 

"Ollie's  at  home,  I  suppose.  I  have  been  up  to  the 
Lookout  talking  to  Pete." 

"Ain't  Ollie  goin'  back  to  the  city  tomorrow?" 
"No,  not  tomorrow;  the  next  day.     lie's  coming 
over   here   tomorrow   afternoon.      Then   he's   going 
away."     Then,  before  Jim  could  ask  another  ques 
tion,  she  held  up  the  half  of  a  ham ;  "Daddy,  Daddy ! 

939 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

How  many  times  have  I  told  you  that  you  must  notr— 
you  must  not  slice  the  ham  with  your  pocket  knife  ? 
Just  look  there !  What  would  Aunt  Mollie  say  if  she 
saw  that,  so  haggled  and  one  sided  ?" 

All  during  the  evening  meal,  the  girl  kept  up  a 
ceaseless  merry  chatter,  changing  the  subject  ab 
ruptly  every  time  it  approached  the  question  that  her 
father  was  most  anxious  to  ask.  And  the  man  de 
lighted  with  her  gay  mood  responded  to  it,  as  he 
answered  to  all  her  moods,  until  they  were  like  two 
school  children  in  their  fun.  But,  when  supper  was 
over  and  the  work  done,  and  Jim,  taking  down  his 
violin,  would  have  made  music,  Sammy  promptly  re 
lieved  him  of  his  instrument,  and  seated  herself  on 
his  knee.  "Not  tonight,  Daddy.  I  want  to  talk 
tonight,  real  serious." 

She  told  him  then  of  the  encounter  with  Wash 
Gibbs  and  his  friend  at  the  mill,  together  with  the 
story  that  Pete  had  illustrated  so  vividly  at  the  Look 
out.  "And  so,  Daddy,"  she  finished;  "I  know  now 
what  I  shall  do.  He  will  come  tomorrow  afternoon  to 
say  good-bye,  and  then  he  will  go  away  again  back  to 
the  city  and  his  fine  friends  for  good.  And  I'll  stay 
and  take  care  of  my  Daddy  Jim.  It  isn't  that  he  is  a 
bad  man  like  Wash  Gibbs.  He  couldn't  be  a  bad  maii 
like  that ;  he  isn't  big  enough.  And  that's  just  it.  He  is 
too  little — body,  soul  and  spirit — he  is  too  little.  He 
will  do  well  in  the  world;  perhaps  he  will  even  do 

240 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

big  things.  But  I  heard  dear  old  Preachin'  Bill  say 
once,  that  'some  fellers  can  do  mighty  big  things  in 
a  durned  little  wa} .'  So  he  is  going  back  to  the  city, 
and  I  am  going  to  stay  in  the  hills." 

Jim  took  no  pains  to  hide  his  delight.  "I  knowed 
it,  girl.  I  knowed  it.  Bank  on  the  old  blood  every 
time.  There  ain't  a  drop  of  yeller  in  it ;  not  a  drop, 
Sammy.  Ollie  ain't  to  say  bad,  but  he  ain't  just  our 
kind.  Lord !  But  I'd  like  to  o'  seen  Young  Matt  a 
givin'  it  to  Wash  Gibbs!"  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  roared  with  delight.  "  Just  wait  'till  I  see  Wash. 
I'll  ask  him  if  he  thinks  Young  Matt  would  need  a 
pry  for  to  lift  that  mill  engine  with,  now."  Then 
all  of  a  sudden  the  laugh  died  out,  and  the  man's 
dark  face  was  serious,  as  he  said,  slowly,  "The  boy'll 
have  to  watch  him,  though.  It'll  sure  be  war  from 
this  on ;  the  worst  kind  of  war." 

"Daddy,  what  do  you  think  Wash  would  have  done 
to  me,  if  Young  Matt  had  not  been  there  ?" 

That  metallic  ring  was  in  Jim's  voice,  now,  as  he 
replied,  "Wash  Gibbs  ought  to  knowed  better  than  to 
done  that  But  it  was  a  blessin'  Young  Matt  was 
there,  wasn't  it?  He'd  take  care  of  you  anywhere. 
I  wouldn't  never  be  afraid  for  you  with  him." 

The  girl  hid  her  face  on  her  father's  shoulder,  as 
she  said,  "Daddy,  will  Wash  Gibbs  come  here  any 
more  now  ?  It  seems  to  me  he  wouldn't  dare  meet 
you  after  this." 

241 


SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jiir*  answered  uneasily,  "I  don't  know,  girl.  I 
reckon  he'll  be  around  again  after  a  time." 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  little  while ;  then  Sammy, 
wkh  her  arms  still  about  his  neck,  said,  "Daddy,  I'm 
^oing  to  stay  in  the  hills  with  you  now.  I  am  going 
\o  send  Ollie  away  tomorrow,  because  as  you  say,  he 
isn't  our  kind.  Daddy,  Wash  Gibbs  is  not  our  kind 
either,  is  he  ?" 

"You  don't  understand,  girl,  and  I  can't  tell  you 
now.  It  all  started  way  back  when  you  was  a  little 
trick." 

The  young  woman  answered  very  gently,  "Yes,  I 
know.  Yo?i  have  told  me  that  often.  But,  Daddy, 
what  will — what  will  our  friends  think,  if  you  keep 
on  with  Wash  Gibbs  now,  after  what  happened  at  the 
mill  today?  Young  Matt  fought  Gibbs  because  he 
insulted  me  and  was  going  to  hurt  me.  You  say 
yourself  that  it  will  be  war  between  them  now  ?  Will 
you  side  with  Wash?  And  if  you  do,  won't  it  look 
like  there  was  just  a  little,  tiny  streak  of  yellow 


in  us  ?" 


This  side  of  the  situation  had  not  struck  Jim  at 
first.  He  got  up  and  walked  the  floor,  while  the  girl, 
standing  quietly  by  the  fireplace,  watched  him,  a 
proud,  fond  light  in  her  eyes.  Sammy  did  not  know 
what  the  bond  between  her  father  and  the  big  ruffian 
was,  but  she  knew  that  it  was  not  a  light  one.  Now 


242 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

that  the  issue  was  fairly  defined,  she  felt  confident 
that,  whatever  the  cost,  the  break  would  be  made. 

But  at  this  time  it  was  well  that  she  did  not  know 
how  great  the  cost  of  breaking  the  bond  between  the 
two  men  would  be. 

Jim  stopped  before  his  daughter,  and,  placing  a 
hand  upon  each  shoulder,  said,  "Tell  me,  girl;  are 
you  so  powerful  anxious  to  have  me  and  Young  Matt 
stay  good  friends  like  we've  always  been  ?" 

"I— I  am  afraid  I  am,  Daddy." 

And  then,  a  rare  smile  came  into  the  dark  face 
of  Jim  Lane.  He  kissed  the  girl  and  said,  "I'll  do 
it,  honey.  I  ain't  afraid  to,  now." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
SAMMY  GRADUATES. 

[HE  next  day  when  young  Stewart  came, 
the  books  were  all  back  on  the  shelf  in 
the  main  room  of  the  cabin,  and  Sammy, 
dressed  in  a  fresh  gown  of  simple  goods 
and  fashion,  with  her  hair  arranged  carefully,  as 
she  had  worn  it  the  last  two  months  before  Ollie's 
coming,  sat  at  the  window  reading. 

The  man  was  surprised  and  a  little  embarrassed. 
"Why,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"I  have  not  been  doing  anything  to  myself.  I 
have  only  done  some  things  to  my  clothes  and  hair/' 
returned  the  girl. 

Then  he  saw  the  books.  "Why,  where  did  these 
come  from?"  He  crossed  the  room  to  examine  the 
volumes.  "Do  you — do  you  read  all  these  ?" 

"The  skepherd  has  been  helping  me,"  she  ex 
plained. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  understood  that  you  were  studying 
with  him."  He  looked  at  her  curiously,  as  though 
they  were  meeting  for  the  first  time.  Then,  as  she 
talked  of  her  studies,  his  embarrassment  deepened, 

244 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

for  lie  found  himself  floundering  hopelessly  before 
this  clear-eyed,  clear-brained  backwoods  girl. 

"Come,"  said  Sammy  at  last.  "Let  us  go  for  a 
walk."  She  led  the  way  to  her  favorite  spot,  high 
up  on  the  shoulder  of  Dewey,  and  there,  with  Mut 
ton  Hollow  at  their  feet  and  the  big  hills  about  them, 
with  the  long  blue  ridges  in  the  distance  beyond 
which  lay  Ollie's  world,  she  told  him  what  he  feared 
to  learn.  The  man  refused  to  believe  that  he  heard 
aright.  "You  do  not  understand,"  he  protested,  and 
he  tried  to  tell  her  of  the  place  in  life  that  would 
be  hers  as  his  wife.  In  his  shallowness,  he  talked 
even  of  jewels,  and  dresses,  and  such  things. 

"'But  can  all  this  add  one  thing  to  life  itself?" 
she  asked.  "Is  not  life  really  independent  of  all 
these  things  ?  Do  they  not  indeed  cover  up  the  real 
life,  and  rob  one  of  freedom  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  it 
must  be  so." 

He  could  only  answer,  "But  you  know  nothing 
about  it.  How  can  you  ?  You  have  never  been 
out  of  these  woods." 

"No,"  she  returned,  "that  is  true;  I  have  never 
been  out  of  these  woods,  and  you  can  never,  now,  get 
away  from  the  world  into  which  you  have  gone." 
She  pointed  to  the  distant  hills.  "It  is  very, 
very  far  over  there  to  where  you  live.  I  might, 
indeed,  find  many  things  in  your  world  that  would 
be  delightful;  but  I  fear  that  I  should  lose  the 

245 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

things  that  after  all  are,  to  me,  the  really  big  things, 
I  do  not  feel  that  the  things  that  are  greatest  in 
your  life  could  bring  happiness  without  that  which 
I  find  here.  And  there  is  something  here  than  can 
bring  happiness  without  what  you  call  the  advantages 
of  the  world  to  which  you  belong." 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  world?"  he  said 
roughly. 

"Nothing,"  she  said.  "But  I  know  a  little  of  life. 
And  I  have  learned  some  things  that  I  fear  you  have 
not.  Beside,  I  know  now  that  I  do  not  love  you.  I 
have  been  slow  to  find  the  truth,  but  I  have  found  lit. 
And  this  is  the  one  thing  that  matters,  that  I  found 
it  in  time." 

"Did  you  reach  this  conclusion  at  the  mill  yester 
day  ?"  he  asked  with  a  sneer. 

"No.  It  came  to  me  here  on  the  rock  last  evening 
after  you  were  gone.  I  heard  a  strange  story;  the 
story  of  a  weak  man,  a  strong  man,  and  a  God  who 
was  very  kind." 

Ollie  saw  that  further  persuasion  was  of  no  avail, 
and  as  he  left  her,  she  watched  him  out  of  sight  for 
the  last  time — along  the  trail  that  is  nobody  knows 
how  old.  When  he  was  gone,  in  obedience  to  an 
impulse  she  did  not  try  to  understand,  she  ran  down 
the  mountain  to  the  cabin  in  the  Hollow — Young 
Matt's  cabin.  And  when  the  shepherd  came  in  from 
the  hills  with, his  flock  he  found  the  house  in  such 

246 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

order  as  only  a  woman's  hand  can  bring.  The  table 
was  set,  and  his  supper  cooking  on  the  stove. 

"Dad,"  she  asked,  "Do  you  think  I  know  enough 
now  to  live  in  the  city  ?" 

The  old  man's  heart  sank.  It  had  come  then. 
Bravely  he  concealed  his  feelings,  as  he  assured  her 
in  the  strongest  terms,  that  she  knew  enough,  and  was 
good  enough  to  live  anywhere. 

"Then,"  said  Sammy,  "I  know  enough,  even  if 
I  am  not  good  enough,  to  live  in  the  hills." 

The  brown  eyes,  deep  under  their  shaggy  brows, 
were  aglow  with  gladness,  and  there  was  a  note  of 
triumph  in  the  scholar's  voice  as  he  said,  "Then  you 
do  not  regret  learning  the  things  I  have  tried  to 
teach  you  ?  You  are  sure  you  have  no  sorrow  for 
the  things  you  are  losing." 

"Regret  ?  Dad.  Regret  ?"  The  young  woman 
drew  herself  up  and  lifted  her  arms.  "Oh,  Dad,  I 
see  it  all,  now;  all  that  you  have  been  trying  in  a 
thousand  ways  to  teach  me.  You  have  led  me  into 
a  new  world,  the  real  world,  the  world  that  has  always 
been  and  must  always  be,  and  in  that  world  man  ia 
king;  king  because  he  is  a  man.  And  the  treasure 
of  his  kingdom  is  the  wealth  of  his  manhood." 

"And  the  woman,  Sammy,  the  woman  ?" 

"  'And  they  twain  shall  be  one  flesh/ ' 

Then  the  master  knew  that  his  teaching  had  not 
been  in  vain.  "I  can  lead  you  no  farther,  my  child," 

24? 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Jie  said  with  a  smile.  "You  have  passed  the  final 
test." 

She  came  close  to  him,  "Then  I  want  my  diploma," 
she  said,  for  he  had  told  her  ahout  the  schools. 

Reverently  the  old  scholar  kissed  her  brow.  "This 
is  the  only  diploma  I  am  authorized  to  give — the 
love  and  homage  of  your  teacher." 

"And  my  degree?"  She  waited  with  that  wide, 
questioning  look  in  her  eyes. 

"The  most  honorable  in  all  the  world — a  sure 
enough  lady." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
CASTLE  BUILDING. 

'HE  corn  was  big  enough  to  cultivate  the 
first  time,  and  Young  Matt  with  Old 
Kate  was  hard  at  work  in  the  field  west 
of  the  house. 

It  was  nearly  three  weeks  since  the  incident  at 
the  mill,  since  which  time  the  young  fellow  had  not 
met  Sammy  Lane  to  talk  with  her.  He  had  seen 
her,  though,  at  a  distance  nearly  every  day,  for  the 
girl  had  taken  up  her  studies  again,  and  spent  most 
of  her  time  out  on  the  hills  with  the  shepherd.  That 
day  he  saw  her  as  she  turned  into  the  mill  road  at 
the  lower  corner  of  the  field,  on  her  way  to  the  Forks. 
And  he  was  still  thinking  of  her  three  hours  later, 
as  he  sat  on  a  stump  in  the  shade  of  the  forest's 
edge,  while  his  horse  was  resting. 

Young  Matt  recalled  the  fight  at  the  mill  with  a 
wild  joy  in  his  heart.  Under  any  circumstances  it 
was  no  small  thing  to  have  defeated  the  champion 
strong  man  and  terror  of  the  hills.  It  was  a  glorious 
thing  to  have  done  the  deed  for  the  girl  he  loved,  and 
under  her  eyes.  Sammy  might  give  herself  to  Ollie, 
now,  and  go  far  away  to  the  great  world,  but  she 

249 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

could  never  forget  the  man  who  had  saved  her  from 
insult,  when  her  lover  was  far  too  weak  to  save  even 
himself.  And  Young  Matt  would  stay  in  the  hills 
alone,  but  always  he  would  have  the  knowledge  and 
the  triumph  of  this  thing  that  he  had  done.  Yes,  it 
would  be  easier  now,  but  still — still  the  days  would 
be  years  when  there  was  no  longer  each  morning  the 
hope  that  somewhere  before  the  day  was  gone  he 
would  see  her. 

The  sun  fell  hot  and  glaring  on  the  hillside  field, 
and  in  the  air  was  the  smell  of  the  freshly  turned 
earth.  High  up  in  the  blue  a  hawk  circled  and 
circled  again.  A  puff  of  air  came  sighing  through 
the  forest,  touched  lightly  the  green  blades  in  the 
open,  slipped  over  the  ridge,  and  was  lost  in  the  sky 
beyond.  Old  Kate,  with  head  down,  was  dreaming 
of  cool  springs  in  shady  dells,  and  a  little  shiny 
brown  lizard  with  a  bright  blue  tail  crept  from  under 
the  bottom  rail  of  the  fence  to  see  why  the  man  was 
so  still. 

The  man  turned  his  head  quickly;  the  lizard 
dodged  under  the  rail;  and  old  Kate  awoke  with  a 
start.  Some  one  was  coming  along  the  road  below. 
Young  Matt  knew  the  step  of  that  horse,  as  well  as 
he  knew  the  sound  of  old  Kate's  bell,  or  the  neigh 
of  his  own  sorrel. 

The  brown  pony  stopped  at  the  lower  corner  of 
the  field,  and  a  voice  called,  "You'd  better  be  at  work. 

250 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

I  don't  believe  you  have  ploughed  three  rows  since 
I  passed." 

The  big  fellow  went  eagerly  down  the  hill  to  the 
fence.  "I  sure  ought  to  o'  done  better 'n  that,  for 
it's  been  long  enough  since  you  went  by.  I  always 
notice,  though,  that  it  gets  a  heap  farther  to  the 
other  side  of  the  field  and  back  about  this  time  o* 
day.  What's  new  over  to  the  Forks  ?" 

Sammy  laughed,  "Couldn't  hear  a  thing  but  how 
the  champion  strong  man  was  beaten  at  his  own  game. 
Uncle  Ike  says,  'Ba  thundas !  You  tell  Young  Matt 
that  he'd  better  come  over.  A  man  what  can  ride 
Wash  Gibbs  a  bug  huntin'  is  too  blamed  good  a  man 
t'  stay  at  home  all  th'  time.  We  want  him  t'  tell  us 
how  he  done  it.  Ba  thundas !  He'll  be  gittin'  a  job 
with  th'  gov'ment  next.  What  F  " 

The  man  crossed  his  arms  on  the  top  rail  of  the 
worm  fence,  and  laughed.  It  was  good  to  have 
Sammy  deliver  her  message  in  just  that  way.  "I 
reckon  Uncle  Ike  thinks  I  ought  to  go  dancin'  all 
over  the  hills  now,  with  a  chip  on  my  shoulder,"  he 
said. 

"I  don't  think  you'll  do  that,"  she  returned.  "Dad 
Howitt  wouldn't,  would  he?  But  I  must  hurry  on 
now,  or  Daddy's  supper  won't  be  ready  when  he 
comes  in.  I  stopped  to  give  you  these  papers  for 
your  father."  She  handed  him  the  package.  "And 
— and  I  want  to  thank  you,  Matt,  for  what  you  did 

251 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

at  the  mill.  All  my  life  you  have  been  .ghting  for 
me,  and — and  I  have  never  done  anything  for  you. 
I  wish  I  could  do  something — something  that  would 
show  you  how — how  I  care." 

Her  voice  faltered.  He  was  so  hig  and  strong, 
and  there  was  such  a  look  of  hopeless  love  and  pain 
on  his  rugged  face — a  face  that  was  as  frank  and 
open  as  a  child's.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  no  need 
for  the  shallow  cunning  of  little  fox-like  men.  This 
one  would  go  open  and  bold  on  his  way,  and  that 
which  he  could  not  take  by  his  strength  he  would  not 
have.  Had  she  not  seen  him  in  battle  ?  Had  she 
not  seen  his  eyes  like  polished  steel  points?  Deep 
down  in  her  heart,  the  woman  felt  a  thrill  of  triumph 
that  such  a  man  should  stand  so  before  her.  She 
must  go  quickly. 

Young  Matt  climbed  slowly  up  the  hill  again  to 
his  seat  on  the  stump.  Here  he  watched  until  across 
the  Hollow  he  saw  the  pony  and  his  rider  come  out 
of  the  timber  and  move  swiftly  along  the  ridge; 
watched  until  they  faded  into  a  tiny  spot,  rounded  the 
mountain  and  disappeared  from  sight.  Then,  lifting 
his  eyes,  he  looked  away  beyond  the  long  blue  line 
that  marked  the  distant  horizon,,  Some  day  he  would 
watch  Sammy  ride  away  and  she  would  go  on,  and 
on,  and  on,  beyond  that  blue  line,  out  of  his  life  for 
ever. 

Ollie  had  gone  over  there  to  live,  and  the  shepherd 
252 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

had  come  from  there.  What  was  that  world  like,  he 
wondered.  Between  the  young  man  of  the  moun 
tains  and  that  big  world  vender  there  had  always 
been  a  closely  shut  door.  He  had  seen  the  door  open 
to  Ollie,  and  now  Sammy  stood  on  the  threshold. 
Would  it  ever  open  for  him  ?  And,  if  it  did,  what  ? 
Then  came  a  thought  that  made  his  blood  leap.  Might 
he  not  force  it  open  ?  The  shepherd  had  told  him  of 
others  who  had  done  so. 

Young  Matt  felt  a  strong  man's  contempt  for  the 
things  Ollie  had  gotten  out  of  the  world,  but  he  stood 
in  awe  before  Mr.  Howitt.  He  told  himself,  now, 
that  he  would  look  for  and  find  the  things  yonder 
that  made  Dad  the  man  he  was.  He  would  carry  to 
the  task  his  splendid  strength.  Nothing  should  stop 
him.  And  Sammy,  when  she  understood  that  he  was 
going  away  to  be  like  the  shepherd,  would  wait  awhile 
to  give  him  his  chance.  Surely,  she  would  wait  when 
he  told  her  that.  But  how  should  he  begin  ? 

Looking  up  again,  his  eye  caught  a  slow,  shifting 
patch  of  white  on  the  bench  above  Lost  Creek,  where 
the  little  stream  begins  its  underground  course.  The 
faint  bark  of  a  dog  came  to  him  through  the  thin 
still  air,  and  the  patch  of  white  turned  off  into  the 
trail  that  leads  to  the  ranch.  "Dad !"  exclaimed  the 
young  man  in  triumph.  Dad  should  tell  him  how. 
He  had  taught  Sammy. 

And  so  while  the  sunlight  danced  on  the  green 
253 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

field,  and  old  Kate  slept  in  the  lengthening  shadows 
of  the  timber,  the  lad  gave  himself  to  his  dreams 
and  built  his  castles — as  we  all  have  builded. 

His  dreaming  was  interrupted  as  the  supper  bell 
rang,  and,  with  the  familiar  sound,  a  multitude  of 
other  thoughts  came  crowding  in;  the  father  and 
mother — they  were  growing  old.  Would  it  do  to  leave 
them  alone  with  the  graves  on  the  hill  yonder,  and 
the  mystery  of  the  Hollow?  And  there  was  the 
place  to  care  for,  and  the  mill.  Who  but  Young 
Matt  could  get  work  from  the  old  engine  ? 

It  was  like  the  strong  man  that  the  fight  did  not 
last  long.  Young  Matt's  fights  never  lasted  very 
long.  By  the  time  he  had  unhitched  old  Kate  from 
the  cultivator,  it  was  finished.  The  lad  went  down 
the  hill,  his  bright  castles  in  ruin — even  as  we  all 
have  gone,  or  must  sometime  go  down  the  hill  with 
our  brightest  castles  in  ruin. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 
PREPARATION. 


same    night,    Mr.    Lane    told    his 
daughter  that  he  would  leave  home  early 
the  next  morning  to  be  gone  two  days. 
Jim  was  cleaning  his  big  forty-five  when 
he  made  the  announcement. 

Sammy  paused  with  one  hand  on  the  cupboard 
door  to  ask,  "With  Wash  Gibbs,  Daddy  ?" 

"]STo,  I  ain't  goin'  with  Wash  ;  but  I'll  likely  meet 
up  with  him  before  I  get  back."  There  was  a  hint 
of  that  metallic  ring  in  the  man's  voice. 

The  girl  placed  her  armful  of  dishes  carefully 
on  the  cupboard  shelf  ;  "You're  —  you're  not  going  to 
forget  your  promise,  are  you,  Daddy  Jim  ?" 

The  mountaineer  was  carefully  dropping  a  bit  of 
oil  into  the  lock  of  his  big  revolver.  "No,  girl,  I 
ain't  forgettin'  nothin'.  This  here's  the  last  ride  I 
aim  to  take  with  Wash.  I'm  goin'  to  see  him  to,"  — 
he  paused  and  listened  carefully  to  the  click,  click, 
click,  as  he  tested  the  action  of  his  weapon  —  "to  keep 
my  promise." 

"Oh,  Daddy,  Daddy,  I'm  so  glad  !  I  wanted  this 
more  than  I  ever  wanted  anything-  in  all  my  lifs 

255 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

before.  You're  such  a  good  Daddy  to  me,  I  never 
could  bear  to  see  you  with  that  bad,  bad  man.'7  She 
was  behind  his  chair  now,  and,  stooping,  laid  her 
fresh  young  che^ek  against  the  swarthy,  furrowed 
face. 

The  man  sat  like  a  grim,  stone  image,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  gun  resting  on  his  knees.  ~Not  until  she 
lifted  her  head  to  stand  erect  behind  his  chair,  with 
a  hand  on  each  shoulder,  did  he  find  words.  "Girl, 
there's  just  one  thing  I've  got  to  know  for  sure  before 
I  go  tomorrow.  I  reckon  I'm  right,  but  somehow  a 
man  can't  never  tell  about  a  woman  in  such  things. 
Will  you  tell  your  Daddy,  Sammy  ?" 

"Tell  what,  Daddy  Jim?"  the  girl  asked,  her 
hands  stealing  up  to  caress  her  father's  face. 

"What  answer  will  you  give  to  Young  Matt  when 
he  asks  you  what  Ollie  did  ?" 

"But  why  must  you  know  that  before  you  go  to 
morrow  ?" 

"  'Cause  I  want  to  be  plumb  sure  I  ain't  makin' 
no  mistake  in  sidin'  with  the  boy  in  this  here 
trouble." 

i  "You  couldn't  make  a  mistake  in  doing  that, 
Daddy,  no  matter  whether  I — no  matter  what — but 
perhaps  Matt  will  not  ask  me  what  Ollie  did." 

Just  a  ray  of  humor  touched  the  dark  face.  "I 
ain't  makin'  no  mistake  there.  I  know  what  the  man 
will  do."  He  laid  the  gun  upon  the  table,  and  reach- 

256 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

ing  up  caught  the  girl's  hand.  "But  I  want  to  know 
what  you'll  say  when  he  asks  you.  Tell  me,  honey, 
so  I'll  be  plumb  certain  I'm  doin'  right." 

Sammy  lowered  her  head  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Are  you  sure  this  time,  girl,  dead  sure  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sure  that  it  seems  as  if  I — I  couldn't 
wait  for  him  to  come  to  me.  I  never  felt  this  way  be 
fore,  never." 

The  mountaineer  drew  his  daughter  into  his  arms, 
and  held  her  close,  as  he  said,  "I  ain't  afraid  to  do 
it,  now,  girl." 

The  young  woman  was  so  occupied  with  her  own 
thoughts  and  the  emotions  aroused  by  her  father's 
question,  that  she  failed  to  note  the  ominous  sugges 
tion  that  lay  under  his  words.  So  she  entered  gaily 
into  his  plans  for  her  during  his  two  days'  absence. 

Jim  would  leave  early  in  the  morning,  and  Sammy 
was  to  stay  with  her  friend,  Mandy  Ford,  over  on 
Jake  Creek.  Mr.  Lane  had  arranged  with  Jed 
Holland  to  do  the  milking,  so  there  would  be  no 
reason  for  the  girl's  return  until  the  following  even 
ing,  and  she  must  promise  that  she  would  not  come 
home  before  that  time.  Sammy  promised  laughingly. 
He  need  not  worry;  she  and  Mandy  had  not  had  a 
good  visit  alone  for  weeks. 

When  his  daughter  had  said  good-night,  Jim  ex 
tinguished  the  light,  and  slipping  the  big  gun  inside 
his  shirt  went  to  sit  outside  the  cabin  door  with  his 

257 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

pipe.  An  hour  passed.  Sammy  was  fast  asleep 
And  still  the  man  sat  smoking.  A  half  hour  more 
went  by.  Suddenly  the  pipe  was  laid  aside,  and 
Jim's  hand  crept  inside  his  shirt  to  find  the  butt  of 
the  revolver.  His  quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound 
of  a  swiftly  moving  horse  coming  down  the  moun 
tain. 

The  horse  stopped  at  the  gate  and  a  low  whistle 
came  out  of  the  darkness.  Leaving  his  seat,  Sammy's 
father  crossed  the  yard,  and,  a  moment  later,  the 
horse  with  its  rider  was  going  on  again  down  the 
trail  toward  the  valley  below  and  the  distant  river. 

Jim  waited  at  the  gate  until  the  sound  of  the 
horse's  feet  had  died  away  in  the  night.  Then  he  re 
turned  to  the  cabin.  But  even  as  he  walked  toward 
the  house,  a  dark  figure  arose  from  a  clump  of  bushes 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  spot  where  Jim  and  the 
horseman  had  met.  The  figure  slipped  noiselessly 
away  into  the  forest. 

The  next  morning  Jim  carefully  groomed  and 
saddled  the  brown  pony  for  Sammy,  then,  leading 
his  own  horse  ready  for  the  road,  he  came  to  the  cabin 
door.  "Going  now,  Daddy  1"  said  the  girl,  coming 
for  the  good-by  kiss. 

"My  girl,  my  girl,"  whispered  the  man,  as  he  took 
her  in  his  arms. 

Sammy  was  frightened  at  the  sight  of  his  face,  sc 


258 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

strange  and  white.  "Why  Daddy,  Daddy  Jim, 
what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing  girl,  nothin'.  Only — only  you're  so  like 
your  mother,  girl.  She — she  used  to  come  just  this 
way  when  I'd  be  leavin'.  You're  sure  like  her,  and — 
and  I'm  glad.  I'm  glad  you're  like  the  old  folks,  too. 
Remember  now,  stay  at  Handy 's  until  tomorrow 
evenin'.  Kiss  me  again,  honey.  Good-by." 

He  mounted  hurriedly  and  rode  away  at  a  brisk 
gallop.  Pulling  up  a  moment  at  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  he  turned  in  the  saddle  to  wave  his  hand 
to  the  girl  in  the  cabin  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
A  RIDE  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

>AMMY  arrived  at  the  Ford  homestead  in 
time  for  dinner,  and  was  joyfully  re 
ceived  by  her  friend,  Mandy.  But  early 
in  the  afternoon,  their  pleasure  was 
marred  by  a  messenger  from  Long  Creek  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  Mrs.  Ford's  sister  was  very  ill, 
and  Mrs.  Ford  and  Mandy  must  go  at  once. 

"But  Sammy  can't  stay  here  alone,"  protested  the 
good  woman.  "Mandy,  you'll  just  have  to  stay." 
"Indeed,  she  shall  not,"  declared  their  guest.  "I 
can  ride  up  Jake  Creek  to  the  Forks  and  stay  all 
night  at  Uncle  Ike's.  Brownie  will  make  it  easily  in 
time  for  supper.  You  just  get  your  things  on  and 
start  right  away." 

"You'd  better  hurry,  too,"  put  in  Mr.  Ford. 
"There's  a  storm  comin'  'fore  long,  an'  we  got 
t'  git  across  th'  river  'fore  hit  strikes.  I'll  be  here 
with  th'  horses  by  the  time  you  get  your  bonnets  on." 
He  hurried  away  to  the  barn  for  his  team,  while  the 
women  with  Sammy's  assistance  made  their  simple 
preparation. 

As  mother  Ford  climbed  into  the  big  wagon,  she 
said  to  Sammy,  "Hit's  an  awful  lonely  ol'trip  fer  you,. 

£60 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

child;  an'  you  must  start  right  away,  so's  t'  be  sure 
t'  get  there  'fore  hit  gets  plumb  dark,"  while  Mr. 
Ford  added,  as  he  started  the  team,  "Your  pony's 
ready  saddled,  an'  if  you'll  hurry  along,  you  can  jest 
'bout  make  hit.  Don't  get  catched  on  Jakey  in  a  big 
rain  whatever  you  do." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me,"  returned  the  girl, 
"Brownie  and  I  could  find  the  way  in  the  dark." 

But  when  her  friends  were  gone,  Sammy,  woman 
like,  busied  herself  with  setting  the  disordered  house 
aright  before  she  started  on  her  journey.  Watching 
the  clouds,  she  told  herself  that  there  was  a  plenty  of 
time  for  her  to  reach  the  Postoffice  before  the  storm. 
It  might  not  come  that  way  at  all,  in  fact. 

But  the  way  up  Jake  Creek  was  wild  and  rough, 
and  along  the  faint  trail,  that  twisted  and  wound  like 
a  slim  serpent  through  the  lonely  wilderness,  Brownie 
could  make  but  slow  time.  As  they  followed  the 
little  path,  the  walls  of  the  narrow  valley  grew 
steeper,  more  rocky,  and  barren ;  and  the  road  became 
more  and  more  rough  and  difficult,  until  at  last  the 
valley  narrowed  to  a  mere  rocky  gorge,  through 
which  the  creek  ran,  tumbing  and  foaming  on  its 
way. 

It  was  quite  late  when  Sammy  reached  the  point 
near  the  head  of  the  stream  where  the  trail  leads  out 
of  the  canon  to  the  road  on  the  ridge  above.  It  was 
still  a  good  two  miles  to  the  Forks.  As  she  passed 

261 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  spring,  a  few  big  drops  of  rain  came  pattering 
down,  and,  looking  up,  she  saw,  swaying  and  tossing 
in  the  wind,  the  trees  that  fringed  the  ledges  above, 
and  she  heard  the  roar  of  the  oncoming  storm. 

A  short  way  up  the  side  of  the  mountain  at  the  foot 
of  a  great  overhanging  cliff  there  is  a  narrow  bench, 
and  less  than  a  hundred  feet  from  where  the  trail 
finds  its  way  through  a  break  in  the  rocky  wall,  there 
is  a  deep  cave  like  hollow.  Sammy  knew  the  spot 
well.  It  would  afford  excellent  shelter. 

Pushing  Brownie  up  the  steep  path,  she  had 
reached  this  bench,  when  the  rushing  storm  cloud 
shut  out  the  last  of  the  light,  and  the  hills  shook 
with  a  deafening  crash  of  thunder.  Instinctively 
the  girl  turned  her  pony's  head  from  the  trail,  and, 
following  the  cliff,  reached  the  sheltered  nook,  just 
as  the  storm  burst  in  all  its  wild  fury. 

The  rain  came  down  in  torrents ;  the  forest  roarert ; 
and  against  the  black  sky,  in  an  almost  continuous 
glare  of  lightning,  the  big  trees  tugged  and  strained  in 
their  wild  wrestle  with  the  wind;  while  peal  after 
peal  of  thunder,  rolling,  crashing,  reverberating 
through  the  hills,  added  to  the  uproar. 

It  was  over  in  a  little  while.  The  wind  passbd; 
the  thunder  rumbled  and  growled  in  the  distance; 
and  the  rain  fell  gently ;  but  the  sky  was  still  lighted 
by  the  red  glare.  Though  it  was  so  dark  that  Sammy 
could  see  the  trees  and  rocks  only  by  the  lightning's 

262 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

flash,  she  was  not  frightened.  She  knew  that  Brownie 
would  find  the  way  easily,  and,  as  for  the  wetting, 
she  would  soon  be  laughing  at  that  with  her  friends 
at  the  Postoffice. 

But,  as  the  girl  was  on  the  point  of  moving,  a 
voice  said,  "It's  a  mighty  good  thing  for  us  this  old 
ledge  happened  to  be  here,  ain't  it  ?"  It  was  a  man's 
voice,  and  another  replied,  "Right  you  are.  And  it's 
a  good  thing,  too,  that  this  blow  came  early  in  the 
evening." 

The  speakers  were  between  Sammy  and  the  trail. 
They  had  evidently  sought  shelter  from  the  storm 
a  few  seconds  after  the  girl  had  gained  her  position, 
In  the  wild  uproar  she  had  not  heard  them,  and, 
as  they  crouched  under  the  cliff,  they  were  hidden 
by  a  projection  of  the  rock,  though  now  and  then, 
when  the  lightning  flashed,  she  could  see  a  part  of  one 
of  the  horses.  They  might  be  neighbors  and  friends. 
They  might  be  strangers,  outlaws  even.  The  young 
woman  was  too  wise  to  move  until  she  was  sure. 

The  first  voice  spoke  again.  "Jack  got  off  in  good 
time,  did  he  ?" 

"Got  a  good  start,"  replied  the  other.  "He  ought 
to  be  back  with  the  posse  by  ten  at  latest.  I  told 
him  we  would  meet  them  at  nine  where  this  trail 
comes  into  the  big  road." 

"And  how  far  do  you  say  it  is  to  Jim  Lane's  place, 
by  the  road  and  the  Old  Trail  ?"  asked  the  first  voice. 

263 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

At  the  man's  words  a  terrible  fear  gr 
Sammy's  heart.  "Posse"  that  could  meun  only  one 
thing, — officers  of  the  law.  But  her  father's  name 
and  her  home — in  an  instant  Jim's  strange  com 
panionship  with  Wash  Gibbs,  their  long  mysterious 
rides  together,  her  father's  agitation  that  morning, 
when  he  said  good-by,  with  a  thousand  other  things 
rushed  through  her  mind.  What  terrible  thing  was 
this  that  she  had  happened  upon  in  the  night  ?  What 
horrible  trap  had  they  set  for  her  Daddy,  her  Daddy 
Jim  ?  For  trap  it  was.  It  could  be  nothing  else. 
At  any  risk  she  must  hear  more.  She  had  already 
lost  the  other  man's  re  }ly.  Calming  herself,  the  girl 
listened  eagerly  for  the  next  word. 

A  match  cracked.  The  light  flared  out,  and  a 
whiff  of  tobacco  smoke  came  curling  around  the  rock, 
as  one  of  the  men  said:  "Are  you  sure  there  is  no 
mistake  about  their  meeting  at  Lane's  tonight?" 

"Can't  possibly  be,"  came  the  answer.  "I  was 
lying  in  the  brush,  right  by  the  gate  when  the  messen 
ger  got  there,  and  I  heard  Jim  give  the  order  myself. 
Take  it  all  the  way  through,  unless  we  make  a  slip 
tonight,  it  will  be  one  of  the  prettiest  cases  I  ever 


"Yes,"  said  the  other;  "but  you  mustn't  forget 
that  it  all  hinges  on  whether  or  not  that  bank  watch 
man  was  right  in  thinking  he  recognized  Wash 
Gibbs." 

264 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"The  man  couldn't  be  mistaken  there,"  returned 
the  other.  "There  is  not  another  man  in  the  country 
the  size  of  Gibbs,  except  the  two  Matthews's,  and  of 
course  they're  out  of  the  question.  Then,  look!  Jim 
Lane  was  ready  to  move  out  because  of  the  drought, 
when  all  at  once,  after  being  away  several  days  the 
very  time  of  the  robbery,  he  changes  his  mind,  and 
stays  with  plenty  of  money  to  carry  him  through. 
And  now,  here  we  are  tonight,  with  that  same  old 
Bald  Knobber  gang,  what's  left  of  them,  called  to 
gether  in  the  same  old  way  by  Jim  himself,  to  meet 
in  his  cabin.  Take  my  word  for  it,  we'll  bag  the 
whole  outfit,  with  the  rest  of  the  swag  before  morning. 
It's  as  sure  as  fate.  I'm  glad  that  girl  is  away  from 
home,  though." 

Sammy  had  heard  enough.  As  the  full  meaning 
of  the  officers'  words  came  to  her,  she  felt  herself 
swaying  dizzily  in  the  saddle  and  clung  blindly  to 
the  pony's  mane  for  support.  Then  something  in  her 
brain  kept  beating  out  the  words,  "Ride,  Ride,  Ride." 

Never  for  an  instant  did  Sammy  doubt  her  father. 
It  was  all  some  horrible  mistake.  Her  Daddy  Jim 
would  explain  it  all.  Of  course  he  would,  if — if  she 
could  only  get  home  first.  But  the  men  were  between 
her  and  the  path  that  led  to  the  road. 

Then  all  at  once  she  remembered  that  Young  Matt 
had  told  her  how  Jake  Creek  hollow  headed  in  the 
pinery  below  the  ridge  along  which  they  went  from 

265 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Fall  Creek  to  the  Forks.    It  might  be  that  this  bench 
at  the  foot  of  the  ledge  would  lead  to  a  way  out. 

As  quick  as  thought  the  girl  slipped  to  the  ground, 
and  taking  Brownie  by  the  head  began  feeling  her 
way  along  the  narrow  shelf.  Dead  leaves,  tangled 
grass  and  ferns,  all  wet  and  sodden,  made  a  soft 
carpet,  so  that  the  men  behind  the  rock  heard  no 
sound.  Now  and  then  the  lightning  revealed  a 
glimpse  of  the  way  for  a  short  distance,  but  mostly 
she  trusted  blindly  to  her  pony's  instinct.  Several 
times  she  stumbled  over  jagged  fragments  of  rock 
that  had  fallen  from  above,  cutting  her  hand  and 
bruising  her  limbs  cruelly.  Once,  she  was  saved 
from  falling  over  the  cliff  by  the  little  horse's  refusal 
to  move.  A  moment  she  stood  still  in  the  darkness; 
then  the  lightning  showed  a  way  past  the  dangerous 
point. 

After  a  time  that  seemed  hours,  she  noticed  that  the 
ledge  had  become  no  higher  than  her  head,  and  that 
a  little  farther  on  the  bench  was  lost  in  the  general 
slope  of  the  hill.  She  had  reached  the  head  of  the 
hollow.  A  short  climb  up  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
and,  pushing  through  the  wet  bushes,  she  found  her 
self  in  the  road.  She  had  saved  about  three  miles. 
It  was  still  nearly  five  to  her  home.  An  instant 
later  the  girl  was  in  her  saddle,  and  the  brown  pony 
running  his  best. 

always  looked  back  upon  that  ride  in  the 
266 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

darkness,  and,  indeed,  upon  all  that  happened  that 
night,  as  to  a  dream  of  horror.  As  she  rode,  that 
other  night  canie  back  to  her,  the  night  she  had  ridden 
to  save  the  shepherd,  and  she  lived  over  again  that 
evening  in  the  beautiful  woods  with  Young  Matt. 
Oh,  if  he  were  only  with  her  now!  Unconsciously, 
at  times,  she  called  his  name  aloud  again  and  again, 
keeping  time  to  the  beat  of  her  pony's  feet.  At 
other  times  she  urged  Brownie  on,  and  the  little 
horse,  feeling  the  spirit  of  his  mistress,  answered 
with  the  best  he  had  to  give.  With  eager,  out 
stretched  head,  and  wide  nostrils,  he  ran  as  though 
he  understood  the  need. 

How  dark  it  was !  At  every  bound  they  seemed 
plunging  into  a  black  wall.  What  if  there  should  be 
a  tree  blown  across  the  road  ?  At  the  thought  she 
grew  faint.  She  saw  herself  lying  senseless,  and  her 
father  carried  away  to  prison.  Then  rallying,  she 
held  her  seat  carefully.  She  must  make  it  as  easy 
as  possible  for  Brownie,  dear  little  Brownie.  How 
she  strained  her  eyes  to  see  into  the  black  night ! 
How  she  prayed  God  to  keep  the  little  horse! 

Only  once  in  a  lifetime,  it  seemed  to  her,  did  the 
pony's  iron  shoe  strike  sparks  of  fire  from  the  rocks, 
or  the  lightning  give  her  a  quick  glimpse  of  the  road 
ahead.  They  must  go  faster,  faster,  faster.  Those 
men  should  not — they  should  not  have  her  Daddy 
Jim;  not  unless  Brownie  stumbled. 

267 


THE  SHEPH  ^RD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Where  the  road  leaves  the  ridge  for  Fall  Creek 
Valley,  Sammy  never  tightened  the  slack  rein,  and 
the  pony  never  shortened  his  stride  hy  so  much  as  an 
inch.  It  was  well  that  he  was  hill  bred,  for  none 
but  a  mountain  horse  could  have  kept  his  feet  at  such 
a  terrific  pace  down  the  rocky  slope.  Down  the 
valley  road,  past  the  mill,  and  over  the  creek  they 
flew ;  then  up  the  first  rise  of  the  ridge  beyond.  The 
pony  was  breathing  hard  now,  and  the  girl  en 
couraged  him  with  loving  words  and  endearing  terms ; 
pleading  with  him  to  go  on,  go  on,  go  on. 

At  last  they  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge.  The 
way  was  easier  now.  Here  and  there,  where  the 
clouds  were  breaking,  the  stars  looked  through;  but 
over  the  distant  hills,  the  lightning  still  played,  show 
ing  which  way  the  storm  had  gone ;  and  against  the 
sky,  now  showing  but  dimly  under  ragged  clouds 
and  peeping  stars,  now  outlined  clearly  against  the 
flashing  light,  she  saw  the  round  treeless  form  of  Old 
Dewey  above  her  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
JIM  LANE  KEEPS  HIS  PROMISE. 


,  on  her  tired  pony,  approached 
O  1]  the  Lookout  on  the  shoulder  of  Dewey. 
^^  Jl  As  they  drew  near  a  figure  rose  quickly 
from  its  place  on  the  rock,  and,  running 
swiftly  along  the  ledge,  concealed  itself  in  the  clump 
of  cedars  above  the  trail  on  the  southern  side  of  the 
mountain.  A  moment  later  the  almost  exhausted 
horse  and  his  rider  passed,  and  the  figure,  slipping 
from  the  ledge,  followed  them  unobserved  down  the 
mountain. 

bearing  the  house  Sammy  began  to  wonder  what 
she  should  do  next.  With  all  her  heart  the  girl 
believed  in  her  father's  innocence.  She  did  not  know 
why  those  men  were  at  her  home.  But  she  did  know 
that  the  money  that  helped  her  father  over  the 
drought  had  come  through  the  shepherd;  the 
Matthews  family,  too,  had  been  helped  the  same  way. 
Surely  Dad  Howitt  was  incapable  of  any  crime.  It 
was  all  some  terrible  mistake  ;  some  trap  from  which 
her  father  must  be  saved.  But  Sammy  knew,  too, 
that  Wash  Gibbs  and  his  companions  were  bad  men, 
who  might  easily  be  guilty  of  the  robbery.  To  help 
them  escape  the  officers  was  quite  a  different  matter. 

269 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Leaving  the  trembling  Brownie  in  a  clump  of 
bushes  a  little  way  from  the  clearing,  the  girl  went 
forward  on  foot,  and  behind  her  still  crept  the  figure 
that  had  followed  from  the  Lookout.  Once  the 
figure  paused  as  if  undecided  which  course  to 
pursue.  Close  by,  two  saddle  horses  that  had  carried 
their  riders  on  many  a  long  ride  were  tied  to  a  tree 
a  few  feet  from  the  corner  of  the  barn.  Sammy 
would  have  recognized  these,  but  in  her  excitement 
she  had  failed  to  notice  them. 

At  first  the  girl  saw  no  light.  Could  it  be  that  the 
officers  were  wrong?  that  there  was  no  one  at  the 
cabin  after  all  ?  Then  a  little  penciled  gleam  set  her 
heart  throbbing  wildly.  Blankets  were  fastened  over 
the  windows. 

Sammy  remembered  that  a  few  days  before  a  bit 
of  chinking  had  fallen  from  between  the  logs  in  the 
rear  of  the  cabin.  She  had  spoken  to  her  father 
about  it,  but  it  was  not  likely  that  he  had  remembered 
to  fix  it.  Cautiously  she  passed  around  the  house, 
and,  creeping  up  to  the  building,  through  the  crevice 
between  the  logs,  gained  a  clear  view  of  the 
interior. 

Seated  or  lounging  on  chairs  and  on  the  floor 
about  the  room  were  eleven  men;  one,  the  man  who 
had  been  with  Wash  Gibbs  at  the  mill,  carried  his 
arm  in  a  sling.  The  girl  outside  could  hear  distinctly 
every  word  that  was  spoken.  Wash,  himself,  was 

270 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

speaking.  "Well,  boys,  we're  all  here.  Let's  gef 
through  and  get  away.  Bring  out  the  stuff,  Jim." 

Mr.  Lane  went  to  one  corner  of  the  cabin,  and, 
pulling  up  a  loose  board  of  the  flooring,  drew  out  two 
heazy  sacks.  As  he  placed  the  bags  on  the  table,  the 
men  all  rose  to  their  feet.  "There  it  is  just  as  you 
give  it  to  me,"  said  Jim.  "But  before  you  go  any 
farther,  men,  I've  got  something  to  say." 

The  company  stirred  uneasily,  and  all  eyes  turned 
from  Jim  to  their  big  leader,  while  Sammy  noticed 
for  the  first  time  that  the  table  had  been  moved  from 
its  usual  place,  and  that  her  father  had  taken  such 
a  position  that  the  corner  of  the  cabin  was  direc  y 
behind  him,  with  the  table  in  front.  For  her  life 
the  girl  could  not  have  moved. 

Slowly  Jim  swept  the  group  of  scowling,  wonder 
ing  faces  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  Then,  in 
his  slow  drawling  speech,  he  said,  "Most  of  you  here 
was  in  the  old  organization.  Tom  and  Ed  and  me 
knows  how  it  started  away  back,  for  we  was  in  it  at 
the  beginnin.'  Wash,  here,  was  the  last  man  to  join, 
'fore  we  was  busted,  and  he  was  the  youngest  member, 
too;  bein'  only  a  boy,  but  big  for  his  age.  You  re 
member  how  he  was  taken  in  on  account  of  his 
daddy's  bein'  killed  by  the  gov'ment 

"Didn't  ary  one  of  us  fellers  that  started  it  ever 
think  the  Bald  Knobber's  would  get  to  be  what  they 
did.  We  begun  it  as  a  kind  of  protection,  times  bein' 

271 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

wild  then.  But  first  we  knowed  some  was  a  usin'  the 
order  to  protect  themselves  in  all  kinds  of  devilment, 
and  things  went  on  that  way,  'cause  nobody  didn't 
dare  say  anything;  for  if  they  did  they  was  tried  as 
traitors,  and  sentenced  to  the  death. 

"I  ain't  a  sayin',  boys,  that  I  was  any  better  than 
lots  of  others,  for  I  reckon  I  done  my  share.  But 
when  my  girl's  mother  died,  away  down  there  in 
Texas,  I  promised  her  that  I'd  be  a  good  daddy  to 
my  little  one,  and  since  then  I  done  the  best  I  know. 

"After  things  quieted  down,  and  I  come  back  with 
my  girl,  Wash  here  got  the  old  crowd,  what  was  left 
of  us,  together,  and  wanted  to  reorganize  again.  I 
told  you  then  that  I'd  go  in  with  you  and  stand  by 
the  old  oath,  so  long  as  it  was  necessary  to  protect  our 
selves  from  them  that  might  be  tryin'  to  get  even 
for  what  had  been  done,  but  that  I  wouldn't  go  no 
farther.  I  don't  mind  tellin'  you  now,  boys — though 
I  reckon  you  know  it — that  I  went  in  because  I 
knowed  what  you'd  do  for  me  if  I  didn't.  And  1 
didn't  dare  risk  leaving  my  girl  all  alone  then.  I've 
'tended  every  meetin',  and  done  everything  I  agreed» 
and  there  ain't  a  man  here  can  say  I  ain't." 

Some  of  the  men  nodded,  and  "That's  so,"  and 
"You're  right,  Jim,"  came  from  two  or  three. 

Jim  went  on,  "You  know  that  I  voted  against  it, 
and  tried  to  stop  you  when  you  hung  old  man  Lewis. 
I  thought  then,  and  I  think  yet,  that  it  was  spite 

272 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  not  protection;  and  you  know  how  I  was 
against  goin'  for  the  shepherd,  and  you  went  when 
I  didn't  know  it  As  for  this  here  bank  business,  I 
didn't  even  know  of  it,  'till  you  give  me  this  stuff 
here  for  me  to  keep  for  you.  I  had  to  take  it  'count 
of  the  oath. 

"It's  got  to  be  just  like  it  was  before.  We  come 
together  first  to  keep  each  other  posted,  and  save  our 
selves  if  there  was  any  call  to,  and  little  by  little 
you've  been  led  into  first  one  thing  and  then  another, 
'till  you're  every  bit  and  grain  as  bad  as  the  old 
crowd  was,  only  there  ain't  so  many  of  you,  and 
you've  kept  me  in  it  'cause  I  didn't  dare  leave  my 
girl."  Jim  paused.  There  was  an  ominous  silence 
in  the  room. 

With  his  eyes  covering  every  scowling  face  in 
the  company,  Jim  spoke  again,  "But  things  has 
changed  for  me  right  smart,  since  our  last  meetin', 
when  you  give  me  this  stuff  to  hold.  You  boys  all 
know  how  I've  kept  Wash  Gibbs  away  from  my  girl, 
and  there  ain't  one  of  you  that  don't  know  I'm  right 
knowin'  him  as  we  do.  More'n  two  weeks  ago,  when 
I  wasn't  around,  he  insulted  her,  and  would  have 
lone  worse,  if  Young  Matt  hadn't  beei  i  there  to  take 
care  of  her.  I  called  you  here  tonight,  because  I 
knowed  that  after  what  happei  ed  at  the  mill,  Wash 
and  Bill  would  be  havin'  a  meetin'  as  soon  as  they 
could  get  around,  and  votin'  you  all  to  go  against 

273 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 


Matt  and  his  people.  But  I'm  goin'  to  have 
my  say  first." 

Wash  Gibbs  reached  stealthily  for  his  weapon,  but 
hesitated  when  he  saw  that  the  dark  faced  man  noted 
his  movement. 

Jim  continued,  in  his  drawling  tones,  but  his  voice 
rang  cold  and  clear,  "I  ain't  never  been  mealy 
mouthed  with  no  man,  and  I'm  too  old  to  begin  now. 
I  know  the  law  of  the  order,  and  I  reckon  Gibbs  there 
will  try  to  have  you  keep  it.  You  boys  have  got  to  say 
whether  you'll  stand  by  him  or  me.  It  looks  like  you 
was  goin'  to  go  with  him  alright.  But  whether  you 
do  or  don't,  I  don't  aim  to  stay  with  nobody  that 
stands  by  such  as  Wash  Gibbs.  I'm  goin'  to  side  with 
decent  folks,  who  have  stood  by  my  girl,  and  you  can 
do  your  damnedest.  You  take  this  stuff  away  from 
here.  And  as  for  you,  Wash  Gibbs,  if  you  ever  set 
foot  on  my  place  again,  if  you  ever  cross  my  path 
after  tonight  I'll  kill  you  like  the  measly  yeller  hound 
you  are."  As  he  finished,  Jim  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  corner  of  the  room,  his  hand  inside  of  the 
hickory  shirt  where  the  button  was  missing. 

While  her  father  was  speaking,  Sammy  forgot 
everything,  in  the  wild  joy  and  pride  of  her  heart, 
He  was  her  Daddy,  her  Daddy  Jim  ;  that  man  stand 
ing  so  calmly  there  Before  the  wild  company  of  men. 
Whatever  the  past  had  been,  he  had  wiped  it  clean 
toiiicrht.  He  belonged  to  her  now,  all  to  her.  Sb? 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

looked  toward  Wash  Gibbs.  Then  she  remembered 
the  posse,  the  officers  of  the  law.  They  could  not 
know  what  she  knew.  If  her  father  was  taken  with 
the  others  and  with  the  stolen  gold,  he  would  be  com 
pelled  to  suffer  with  the  rest.  Yet  if  she  called  out 
to  save  him,  she  would  save  Wash  Gibbs  and  his  com 
panions  also,  and  they  would  menace  her  father's 
life  day  and  night. 

The  girl  drew  back  from  the  window.  She  must 
think.  What  should  she  do  ?  Even  as  she  hesitated, 
a  score  of  dark  forms  crept  swiftly,  silently  toward 
the  cabin.  At  the  same  moment  a  figure  left  the 
side  of  the  house  near  the  girl,  and,  crouching  low, 
rr:.n  to  the  two  horses  that  were  tied  near  the  barn. 

Sammy  was  so  dazed  that  for  a  moment  she  did 
not  grasp  the  meaning  of  those  swiftly  moving  forms. 
Then  a  figure  riding  one  horse  and  leading  another 
dashed  away  from  the  barn  and  across  a  corner  of  the 
clearing.  The  silence  was  broken  by  a  pistol  shot 
in  the  cabin.  Like  an  echo  came  a  shot  from  the 
yard,  and  a  voice  rang  out  sharply,  "Halt!"  The 
figure  reeled  in  the  saddle,  as  if  to  fall,  but  recovered, , 
and  disappeared  in  the  timber.  The  same  instant 
there  was  a  rush  toward  the  house — a  loud  call  to 
surrender — a  woman's  scream — and  then,  came  tc 
Sammy,  blessed,  kindly  darkness. 


275 


CHAPTEK  XXXV. 
"I  WILL  LIFT  UP  MINE  EYES  UNTO  THE  HILLS.  ' 


Sammy  opened  her  eyes,  she  was  on 

\  \T 

\Y7\\  the  bed  in  her  own  room.  In  the  other 
'  •  room  someone  was  moving  about,  and  the 
light  from  a  lamp  shone  through  the  door. 

At  first  the  girl  thought  that  she  had  awakened 
from  a  night's  sleep,  and  that  it  was  her  father  whom 
she  heard,  building  the  fire  before  calling  her,  as  his 
custom  was.  But  no,  he  was  not  building  the  fire, 
he  was  scrubbing  the  floor.  How  strange.  She  would 
call  presently  and  ask  what  he  meant  by  getting  up 
before  daylight,  and  whether  he  thought  to  keep  her 
from  scolding  him  by  trying  to  clean  up  what  he  had 
spilled  before  she  should  see  it. 

She  had  had  a  bad  dream  of  some  kind,  but  she 
could  not  remember  just  what  it  was.  It  was  very 
strange  that  something  seemed  to  keep  her  from  call 
ing  to  her  father  just  then.  She  would  call  presently. 
She  must  remember  first  what  that  dream  was.  She 
felt  that  she  ought  to  get  up  and  dress,  but  she  did 
not  somehow  wish  to  move.  She  was  strangely  tired. 
It  was  her  dream,  she  supposed.  Then  she  discovered 
that  she  was  already  fully  dressed,  and  that  her  cloth 
ing  was  wet,  muddy  and  torn.  And  with  this  dis» 

276 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

sovery  every  incident  of  the  night  came  vividly  be 
fore  her.    She  hid  her  face. 

After  awhile,  she  tried  to  rise  to  her  feet,  but  fell 
back  weak  and  dizzy.  Who  was  that  in  the  other 
room  ?  Could  it  be  her  father  ?  Would  he  never 
finish  scrubbing  the  floor  in  that  corner  ?  When  she 
could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer,  she  called  in  a 
voice  th»t  sounded  weak  and  far  away,  '''Daddy,  Oh, 
Daddy." 

Instantly  the  noise  ceased ;  a  step  crossed  the  room ; 
and  the  shepherd  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Placing 
the  lamp  on  a  little  stand,  the  old  man  drew  a  chair 
to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
forehead,  smoothing  back  the  tangled  hair.  He  spoke 
no  word,  but  in  his  touch  there  was  a  world  of 
tenderness. 

Sammy  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  Where  had  he 
come  from  ?  Why  was  he  there  at  all  ?  And  in  her 
room  ?  She  glanced  uneasily  about  the  apartment, 
and  then  back  to  the  kind  face  of  her  old  teacher. 
"I — don't  think  I  understand." 

"Xever  mind,  now,  dear.  Don't  try  to  understand 
just  yet.  Aunt  Mollie  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes. 
Matt  has  gone  for  her.  When  she  comes  and  you  are 
a  little  stronger,  we  shall  talk." 

The  girl  caught  his  hand;  "You — you  won't  leave 
me,  Dad  ?  You  won't  leave  me  alone  ?  I'm  afraid, 
Dad.  I  never  was  before." 

277 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"No,  no,  my  child ;  I  shall  not  leave  you.  But  you 
must  have  something  warm  to  drink.  I  have  been 
preparing  it."  He  stepped  into  the  other  room,  soon 
returning  with  a  steaming  cup.  When  she  had 
finished  the  strengthening  draught,  Young  Matt,  with 
his  mother  and  father,  arrived. 

While  helping  the  girl  into  clean,  dry  clothing, 
Aunt  Mollie  spoke  soothingly  to  her,  as  one  would 
reassure  a  frightened  child.  But  Sammy  could  hear 
only  the  three  men,  moving  about  in  the  other  room, 
doing  something  and  talking  always  in  low  tones. 
She  did  not  speak,  but  in  her  brown  eyes,  that  nevei 
left  the  older  woman's  face,  was  that  wide,  question 
ing  look. 

When  Mrs.  Matthews  had  done  what  she  could  for 
the  comfort  of  the  girl,  and  the  men  had  finished 
whatever  they  were  doing  in  the  other  room,  Samnry 
said,  "Aunt  Mollie,  I  want  to  know.  I  must  know, 
Won't  you  tell  L)ad  to  come,  please  ?"  Instinctively 
she  had  turned  to  her  teacher. 

When  the  shepherd  came,  she  met  him  with  the 
old  familiar  demand,  "Tell  me  everything,  Dad; 
everything.  I  want  to  be  told  all  about  it." 

"You  will  be  brave  and  strong,  Sammy?" 

Instantly,  as  ever,  her  quick  mind  grasped  the 
meaning  that  lay  back  of  the  words  and  her  face  grew 
deathly  white.  Then  she  answered,  "I  will  be  brave 
and  strong.  But  first,  please  open  the  window,  Dad.'" 

278 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  threw  up  the  sash.  It  was  morning,  and  the  mists 
were  over  the  valley,  but  the  mountain  tops  were 
bathed  in  light. 

Sammy  arose,  and  walked  steadily  to  a  chair  by 
the  open  window.  Looking  out  upon  the  beautiful 
scene,  her  face  caught  the  light  that  was  on  the 
higher  ground,  and  she  said  softly,  "  4I  will  lift  up 
mine  eyes  unto  the  hills.'  That's  our  word,  now,  isn't 
it,  Dad?  I  can  share  it  with  you,  now.''  Then  the 
shepherd  told  her.  Young  Matt  had  been  at  the 
ranch  with  Mr.  Howitt  since  early  in  the  evening,  and 
was  taking  his  leave  for  the  night  when  they  heard 
horses  stopping  at  the  corral,  and  a  voice  calling.  Upon 
their  answering,  the  voice  said,  "There  is  trouble  at 
Jim  Lane's.  Take  these  horses  and  go  quick"  And 
then  as  they  had  run  from  the  house,  the  messenger 
had  retreated  into  the  shadow  of  the  bluff,  saying, 
"Never  mind  me.  If  you  love  Sammy,  hurry."  At 
this  they  mounted  and  had  ridden  as  fast  as  possible. 

The  old  man  did  not  tell  the  girl  that  he  had 
found  his  saddle  wet  and  slippery,  and  that  when  he 
reached  the  light  his  hands  were  red. 

They  had  found  the  officers  ready  to  leave  with 
their  prisoners.  All  but  two  of  the  men  were  cap 
tured  with  their  booty — Wash  Gibbs  alone  escaping 
badly  hurt,  they  thought,  after  killing  one  of  the 
posse. 

When  they  had  asked  for  Sammy,  one  of  the 
279 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

officers  told  them  that  she  was  at  Ford's  over  on 
Jake  Creek,  but  another  declared  that  he  had  heard 
a  woman  scream  as  they  were  making  the  attack. 
Young  Matt  had  found  her  unconscious  on  the 
ground  behind  the  cabin. 

When  the  shepherd  finished  his  brief  account,  the 
girl  said,  "Tell  me  all,  Dad.  I  want  to  know  all. 
Did — did  they  take  Daddy  away  ?" 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  dim  as  he  answered 
gently,  "No,  dear  girl ;  they  did  not  take  him  away." 
Then  Sammy  knew  why  Dad  had  scrubbed  the  cabin 
floor,  and  what  the  three  men  who  talked  so  low  had 
been  doing  in  the  other  room. 

She  made  no  outcry,  only  a  moan,  as  she  looked 
away  across  the  silent  hills  and  the  valley,  where  the 
mists  were  slowly  lifting;  lifting  slowly  like  the 
pale  ghost  of  the  starlight  that  was.  "Oh,  Daddy, 
Daddy  Jim.  You  sure  kept  your  promise.  You 
sure  did.  I'm  glad — glad  they  didn't  get  you, 
Daddy.  They  never  would  have  believed  what  I 
know;  never — never." 

But  there  were  no  tears,  and  the  shepherd,  seeing 
after  a  little  touched  her  hand.  "Everything  is 
ready,  dear ;  would  you  like  to  go  now  ?" 

"Not  just  yet,  Dad.  I  must  tell  you  first  how  T 
came  to  be  at  home,  and  why  I  am  glad — oh,  so  glad, 
that  I  was  here.  But  call  the  others,  please ;  I  want 
them  all  to  know." 

280 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

When  the  three,  who  with  her  teacher  loved  her 
best,  had  come,  Sammy  told  her  story;  repeating 
almost  word  for  word  what  she  had  heard  her  father 
say  to  the  men.  When  she  had  finished,  she  turned 
her  face  again  to  the  open  window.  The  mists  were 
gone.  The  landscape  lay  bright  in  the  sun.  But 
Sammy  could  not  see. 

"It  is  much  better,  so  much  better,  as  it  is,  my 
child/7  said  the  old  scholar.  "You  see,  dear,  they 
would  have  taken  him  away.  Nothing  could  have 
saved  him.  It  would  have  been  a  living  death  behind 
prison  walls  away  from  you." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Dad.  I  understand.  It  is  better  as 
it  is.  Xow,  we  will  go  to  him,  please."  They  led 
her  into  the  other  room.  The  floor  in  the  corner  of 
the  cabin  where  the  shepherd  had  washed  it  was  still 
damp. 

Through  it  all,  Sammy  kept  her  old  friend  con 
stantly  by  her  side.  "It  is  easier,  Dad,  when  you  are 
near/7  Xor  would  she  leave  the  house  until  it  was 
all  over,  save  to  walk  a  little  way  with  her  teacher. 

Young  Matt  and  his  father  made  the  coffin  of 
rough  boards,  sawed  at  the  mill ;  and  from  the  coun 
try  round  about,  the  woods-people  came  to  the 
funeral,  or,  as  they  called  it  in  their  simple  way,  the 
"burying.77  The  grave  was  made  in  a  little  glen  not 
far  from  the  house.  When  some  of  the  neighbors 
would  have  brought  a  minister  from  the  settlement, 

281 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Sammy  said,  "No."  Dad  would  say  all  that  was 
necessary.  So  the  shepherd,  standing  under  the  big 
trees,  talked  a  little  in  his  simple  kindly  way,  and 
spoke  the  words,  "Earth  to  earth,  dust  to  dust,  ashes 
to  ashes."  "As  good,"  declared  some,  "as  any 
preacher  on  earth  could  o'  done  hit;"  though  one  or 
two  held  "it  warn't  jest  right  to  put  a  body  in  th' 
ground  'thout  a  regular  parson  t'  preach  th'  sermon." 

When  the  last  word  was  spoken,  and  the  neighbors 
had  gone  away  over  the  mountains  and  through  the 
woods  to  their  homes,  Aunt  Mollie  with  her  motherly 
arm  about  the  girl,  said,  "Come,  honey,  you're  our 
girl  now.  As  long  as  you  stay  in  the  hills,  you  shall 
stay  with  us."  And  Old  Matt  added,  "You're  the 
only  daughter  we've  got,  Sammy ;  and  we  want  you  a 
heap  worse  than  you  know." 

When  Sammy  told  them  that  she  was  not  going  to 
the  city  to  live,  they  cried  in  answer,  "Then  you 
shall  be  our  girl  always,"  and  they  took  her  home 
with  them  to  the  big  log  house  on  the  ridge. 

For  a  week  after  that  night  at  the  Lane  cabin, 
Pete  was  not  seen.  When  at  last,  he  did  appear,  it 
was  to  the  shepherd  on  the  hill,  and  his  voice  and 
manner  alarmed  Dad.  But  the  boy's  only  reply  to 
Mr.  Howitt's  question  was,  "Pete  knows;  Pete 
knows."  Then  in  his  own  way  he  told  something  that 
sent  the  shepherd  to  Young  Matt,  and  the  two  fol- 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

lowed  the  lad  to  a  spot  where  the  buzzards  were  flying 
low  through  the  trees. 

By  the  shreds  of  clothing  and  the  weapon  lying 
near,  they  knew  that  the  horrid  thing,  from  which  as 
they  approached,  carrion  birds  flapped  their  wings  in 
heavy  flight,  was  all  that  remained  of  the  giant,  Wash 
Gibbs. 

Many  facts  were  brought  out  at  the  trial  of  the 
outlaws  and  it  was  made  clear  that  Jim  Lane  had  met 
his  death  at  the  hands  of  Wash  Gibbs,  just  at  the 
beginning  of  the  attack,  and  that  Gibbs  himself  had 
been  wounded  a  moment  later  by  one  of  the  attacking 
posse. 

Thus  does  justice  live  even  in  the  hills. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
ANOTHER  STRANGER. 

R.  MATTHEWS  and  his  son  first  heard 
of  the  stranger  through  Lou  Gordon,  the 
mail  carrier,  who  stopped  at  the  mill  or 
his  way  to  Flag  with  the  week's  mail. 
The  native  rode  close  to  the  shed,  and  waited  until 
the  saw  had  shrieked  its  way  through  the  log  of  oak, 
and  the  carriage  had  rattled  back  to  first  position. 
Then  with  the  dignity  belonging  to  one  of  his  station, 
as  a  government  officer,  he  relieved  his  overcharged 
mouth  of  an  astonishing  quantity  of  tobacco,  and 
drawled,  "Howdy,  men." 

"Howdy,  Lou,"  returned  Young  Matt  from  the 
engine,  and  Old  Matt  from  the  saw. 

"Reckon  them  boards  is  fer  a  floor  in  Joe  Gard 
ner's  new  cabin?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Old  Matt ;  "we  ought  to  got  'em 
out  last  week,  but  seems  like  we  couldn't  get  at  it 
with  the  buryin'  an'  all." 

"  'Pears  like  you  all  'r  gettin'  mighty  proud  in  this 
neighborhood.  Puncheon  floors  used  t'  be  good  enough 
fer  anybody  t'  dance  on.  Be  a  buildin'  board  houses 
next,  I  reckon.  * 

284 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Mr.  Matthews  laughed,  "Bring  jour  logs  over  to 
Fall  Creek  when  you  get  ready  to  build,  Lou;  we'll 
sure  do  you  right." 

The  representative  of  the  government  recharged 
his  mouth.  "  'Lowed  as  how  I  would/'  he  returned. 
i"I  ain't  one  o'  this  here  kind  that  don't  want  t'  see 
no  changes.  Gov'ment's  all  th'  time  makin'  'prove- 
ments.  Inspector  'lowed  last  trip  we'd  sure  be  a  get- 
tin'  mail  twice  a  week  at  Flag  next  summer.  This 
here's  sure  bound  t'  be  a  big  country  some  day. 

"Talkin'  'bout  new  f angled  things,  though,  men! 
I  seed  the  blamdest  sight  las'  night  that  ever  was  in 
these  woods,  I  reckon.  I  gonies !  Hit  was  a  plumb 
wonder !"  Kicking  one  foot  from  the  wooden  stirrup 
and  hitching  sideways  in  the  saddle,  he  prepared  for 
an  effort. 

"Little  feller,  he  is.  Ain't  as  tall  as  Preachin'  Bill 
even,  an'  fat !  I  gonies !  he's  fat  as  a  possum  'n  'sim- 
mon  time.  He  don't  walk,  can't;  just  naturally  wad 
dles  on  them  little  duck  legs  o'  hisn.  An'  he's  got  th' 
prettiest  little  ol'  face;  all  red  an'  white,  an'  as 
round's  a  walnut;  an'  a  fringe  of  th'  whitest  hair 
,you  ever  seed.  An*  clothes!  Say,  men."  In  the 
ipauso  the  speaker  deliberately  relieved  his  over 
charged  mouth.  The  two  in  the  mill  waited  breath 
lessly.  "Long  tailed  coat,  stove  pipe  hat,  an'  cane 
with  a  gold  head  as  big  as  a  'tater.  ?Fo'  God,  men, 
there  ain't  been  ary  such  a  sight  within  a  thousand 

2IH5 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

miles  of  these  here  hills  aver.    An'  doin's  !    My 
a'mighty !" 

The  thin  form  of  the  native  doubled  up  as  he  b*oke 
into  a  laugh  that  echoed  and  re-echoed  through  the 
little  valley,  ending  in  a  wild,  "Whoop-e-e-e.  Say! 
When  he  got  out  of  th'  hack  last  night  at  th'  ^orks,. 
Uncle  Ike  he  catched  sight  o  him  an7  says,  say <  he  t9 
me,  'Ba  thundas !  Lou,  looky  there !  Talk  'boux  pros 
perity.  I'm  dummed  if  there  ain't  ol'  Santf  Glaus 
a  comin'  t'  th'  Forks  in  th'  summa  time.  'B*  thun 
das!  What!" 

"An'  when  Santa  come  in,  he — he  wanted-^-Now 
what  d'  you  reckon  he  wanted?  A  bath!  Yes,  ur-e-e. 
Dad  burn  me,  'f  he  didn't.  A  bath !  Whoop-e  ?,  you 
ought  t'  seen  Uncle  Ike!  He  told  him,  'B?  thun 
das!'  he  could  give  him  a  bite  tc  eat  an'  a  place  to 
tleep,  but  he'd  be  pisined  bit  by  rattlers,  cla^vred  by 
wild  cats,  chawed  by  the  hogs,  et  by  buzzards,  an' 
everlastin'ly  damned  'fore  he'd  tote  water  'notrgh  fer 
anybody  t'  swim  in.  'Ba  thundas !  What !" 

"What's  he  doin'  here?"  asked  Mr.  Matthews, 
when  the  mountaineer  had  recovered  from  another 
explosion. 

Lou  shook  his  head,  as  he  straightened  himself  in 
the  saddle.  "Blame  me  'f  I  kin  tell.  Jest  wouldn't 
tell  't  all  last  night.  W7anted  a  bath.  Called  Uncle 
Ike  some  new  fangled  kind  of  a  savage,  an'  th'  old 


286 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

aan  'lowed  he'd  show  him.  He'd  sure  have  him 
persecuted  fer  'sultin'  a  gov'ment  servant  when  th' 
inspector  come  around.  Yes  he  did.  Oh,  thar  was 
doin's  at  the  Forks  last  night !" 

Again  the  mail  carrier's  laugh  echoed  through  the 
woods. 

"Well,  I  must  mosey  along.  He  warn't  up  this 
mornin'  when  I  left.  Reckon  he'll  show  up  'round 
here  sometime  'fore  sun  down.  Him  an'  Uncle  Ike 
won't  hitch  worth  a  cent  an'  he'll  be  huntin'  prouder 
folks,  I  done  told  th'  old  man  he'd  better  herd  him 
fer  a  spell,  fer  if  he  was  t'  get  loose  in  these  woods, 
there  wouldn't  be  nary  deer  er  bear  left  come  Thanks- 
givin'  time.  Uncle  Ike  said  'Ba  thundas!'  he'd  let 
me  know  that  he  warn't  runnin'  no  dumraed  asylum. 
He  'lowed  he  was  postmaster,  cBa  thundas !'  an'  had 
all  he  could  do  t'  keep  th'  dad  burned  gov'ment 
straight." 

Late  that  afternoon  Lou's  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  A 
wagon  going  down  the  Creek  with  a  load  of  supplies 
for  the  distillery  stopped  at  the  mill  shed  and  the 
stranger  began  climbing  carefully  down  over  the 
wheels.  Budd  Wilson  on  his  high  seat  winked  and 
nodded  at  Mr.  Matthews  and  his  son,  as  though  it  was 
the  greatest  joke  of  the  season. 

"Hold  those  horses,  driver.  Hold  them  tight; 
tight,  sir." 


987 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Got  'em,  Mister,"  responded  Budd  promptly.  The 
mules  stood  with  drooping  heads  and  sleepy  eyes,  the 
lines  under  their  feet. 

The  gentleman  was  feeling  carefully  about  the 
hub  of  the  wheel  with  a  foot  that,  stretch  as  he  might, 
could  not  touch  it  by  a  good  six  inches. 

"That's  right,  man,  right,"  he  puffed.  "Hold  them 
tight ;  tight.  Start  now,  break  a  leg  sure,  sure.  Then 
what  would  Sarah  and  the  girls  do  ?  Oh,  blast  it  all> 
where  is  that  step  ?  Can't  stay  here  all  day.  Bring 
a  ladder.  Bring  a  high  chair,  a  table,  a  box,  a  big 
box,  a — heh — heh — Look  out,  I  say,  look  out !  Blast 
it  all,  what  do  you  mean?"  This  last  was  called 
forth  by  Young  Matt  lifting  the  little  man  bodily  to 
the  ground,  as  an  ordinary  man  would  lift  a  child. 

To  look  up  at  the  young  giant,  the  stranger  tipped 
back  his  head,  until  his  shining  silk  hat  was  in  danger 
of  falling  in  the  dirt.  "Bless  my  soul,  what  a  speci 
men!  What  a  specimen!"  Then  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  "Which  one  of  the  boys  are  you,  anyway  ?" 

At  this  the  three  mountaineers  roared  with  laugh 
ter.  With  his  dumpy  figure  in  the  long  coat,  and 
his  round  face  under  the  tall  hat,  the  little  man  was 
irresistible.  He  fairly  shone  with  good  humor;  his 
cheeks  were  polished  like  big  red  apples;  his  white 
hair  had  the  luster  of  silver ;  his  blue  eyes  twinkled : 
his  silk  hat  glistened ;  his  gold  watch  guard  sparkled ; 


288 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  patent  leathers  glistened;  and  the  cane  with  the 
big  gold  head  gleamed  in  the  sunlight. 

"That's  him,  Doc,"  called  the  driver.  "That's  the 
feller  what  wallered  Wash  Gibbs  like  I  was  a  tellin' 
ye.  Strongest  man  in  the  hills -he  is.  Dad  burn  me  if 
I  believe  he  knows  how  strong  he  is." 

"Doe — Doc — Dad  burned — Doc,"  muttered  the 
stranger.  "What  would  Sarah  and  the  girls  say!" 
He  waddled  to  the  wagon,  and  reached  up  one  fat 
hand  with  a  half  dollar  to  Budd,  "Here,  driver,  here. 
Get  cigars  with  that ;  cigars,  mind  you.  or  candy.  I 
stay  here.  Mind  you  don't  get  anything  to  drink; 
nothing  to  drink,  I  say." 

Budd  gathered  up  the  reins  and  woke  the  sleepy 
mules  with  a  vigorous  jerk.  "!N"ary  a  drink,  Doc; 
nary  a  drink.  Thank  you  kindly  all  the  same.  Got 
t?  mosey  'long  t'  th'  still  now;  ought  t'  o'  been  there 
hour  ago.  'f  I  can  do  anything  fer  you,  jest  le'  me 
know.  I  live  over  on  Sow  Coon  Gap,  when  I'm  't 
home.  Come  over  an'  visit  with  me.  Young  Matt 
there'll  guide  you." 

As  he  watched  the  wagon  down  the  valley,  the 
stranger  mused.  "Doc — Doc — huh.  Quite  sure  that 
fellow  will  buy  a  drink ;  quite  sure." 

When  the  wagon  had  disappeared,  he  turned  to 
Mr.  Matthews  and  his  son ;  "According  to  that  fellow, 
I  am  not  far  from  a  sheep  ranch  kept  by  a  Mr.  How- 


289 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

itt.  That's  it,  Mr.  Daniel  Howitt ;  fine  looking  man, 
fine;  brown  eyes;  great  voice;  gentleman,  sir,  gentle 
man,  if  he  is  keeping  sheep  in  this  wilderness.  Blast 
it  rll,  just  like  him,  just  like  him;  always  keeping 
somebody's  sheep ;  born  to  be  a  shepherd ;  born  to  be. 
Know  him  ?" 

At  mention  of  Mr.  Howitt's  name,  Young  Matt 
had  looked  at  his  father  quickly.  When  the  stranger 
paused,  he  answered,  "Yes,  sir.  We  know  Dad 
Howitt.  Is  he  a  friend  of  yourn  ?" 

"Dad— Dad  Howitt.  Doc  and  Dad.  Well,  what 
would  Sarah  and  the  girls  say  ?  Friend  of  mine  ? 
Young  man  Daniel  and  David,  I  am  David;  Daniel 
and  David  lay  on  the  same  blanket  when  they  were 
babies;  played  in  the  same  alley;  school  together 
same  classes ;  colleged  together ;  next  door  neighbors. 
Know  him !  Blast  it  all,  where  is  this  sheep  place  ?" 

Again  the  two  woodsmen  exchanged  glances.    The 
elder  Matthews  spoke,  "It  ain't  so  far  from  here,  si? 
The  ranch  belongs  to  me  and  my  son.    But  Mr.  HOT* 
itt  will  be  out  on  the  hills  somewhere  with  the  sheep 
now.    You'd  better  go  home  with  us  and  have  supper, 
and  the  boy  will  take  you  down  this  eveninV 

"Well,  now,  that's  kind,  sir;  very  kind,  indeed 
Man  at  the  postoffice  is  a  savage,  sir;  blasted,  old 
incorrigible  savage.  My  name  is  Coughlan;  Dr 
David  Coughlan,  of  Chicago ;  practicing  physician  for 
forty  years ;  don't  do  anything  now ;  not  much,  that  is 

290 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Sarah  and  the  girls  won't  let  me.    Your  name,  sir  ?" 

'"'Grant  Matthews.  My  boy  there  has  the  same. 
We're  mighty  glad  to  meet  any  friend  of  Dad's,  I  can 
tell  you.  He's  sure  been  a  God's  blessin'  to  this 
neighborhood." 

Soon  they  started  homeward,  Young  Matt  going 
ihead  to  do  the  chores,  and  to  tell  his  mother  of  their 
coming  guest,  while  Mr.  Matthews  followed  more 
slowly  with  the  doctor.  Shortening  his  stride  to  con 
form  to  the  slow  pace  of  the  smaller  man,  the  moun 
taineer  told  his  guest  about  the  shepherd ;  how  he  had 
come  to  them;  of  his  life;  and  how  he  had  won  the 
hearts  of  the  people.  When  he  told  how  Mr.  Howitt 
had  educated  Sammy,  buying  her  books  himself  from 
his  meager  wages,  the  doctor  interrupted  in  his  quick 
way,  "Just  like  him!  just  like  him.  Always  giving 
away  everything  he  earned.  Made  others  give,  too. 
Blast  it  all,  he's  cost  me  thousands  of  dollars, 
thousands  of  dollars,  treating  patients  of  his  that 
never  paid  a  cent;  not  a  cent,  sir.  Proud,  though; 
proud  as  Lucifer.  Fine  old  family;  finest  in  the 
oountry,  sir.  Right  to  be  proud,  right  to  be." 

Old  Matt  scowled  as  he  returned  coldly,  "He  sure 
don't  deem  that  way  to  us.  Mister.  He's  as  common 
as  an  old  shoe."  And  then  the  mountaineer  told  how 
his  son  loved  the  shepherd,  and  tried  to  explain  what 
;>Jie  old  scholar's  friendship  had  meant  to  them. 

The  stranger  ejaculated,  "Same  old  thing;  same 
291 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

old  trick.  Did  me  that  way;  does  everybody  that 
way.  Same  old  Daniel.  Proud,  though;  can't  help 
it ;  can't  help  it." 

The  big  man  answered  with  still  more  warmth, 
"You  ought  to  hear  how  he  talks  to  us  folks  when  we 
i^ave  meetin's  at  the  Cove  school  house.  He's  as  good 
as  any  preacher  you  ever  heard ;  except  that  he  don't 
put  on  as  much,  maybe.  Why,  sir,  when  we  buried 
Jim  Lane  week  before  last,  everybody  'lowed  he  done 
as  well  as  a  regular  parson." 

At  this  Dr.  Coughlan  stopped  short  and  leaned 
against  a  convenient  tree  for  support,  looking  up  at 
his  big  host,  with  merriment  he  could  not  hide ;  "Par 
son,  parson!  Daniel  Howitt  talked  as  good  as  a  par 
son  !  Blast  it  all !  Dan  is  one  of  the  biggest  D.  D.'s 
in  the  United  States;  as  good  as  a  parson,  I  should 
think  so !  Why,  man,  he's  my  pastor ;  my  pastor. 
Biggest  church,  greatest  crowds  in  the  city.  Well 
what  would  Sarah  and  the  girls  say!"  He  stood 
there  gasping  and  shaking  with  laughter,  until  Old 
Matt,  finding  the  ridiculous  side  of  the  situation, 
joined  in  with  a  guffaw  that  fairly  drowned  the 
sound  of  the  little  man's  merriment. 

When  they  finally  moved  on  again,  the  Docto/ 
said,  "And  you  never  knew?  The  papers  were  al 
ways  full,  always.  His  real  name  is — " 

"Stop !"  Old  Matt  spoke  so  suddenly  and  in  such 
a  tone  that  the  other  jumped  in  alarm.  "I  ain't  a 

292 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

meanin'  no  harm,  Doc;  but  you  oughn't  to  tell  his 
name,  and — anyway  I  don't  want  to  know.  Preacher 
or  no  preacher,  he's  a  man,  he  is,  and  that's  what 
counts  in  this  here  country.  If  Dad  had  wanted  us 
to  know  about  himself,  I  reckon  he'd  a  told  us,  and  I 
don't  want  to  hear  it  until  he's  ready." 

The  Doctor  stopped  short  again,  "Right,  sir ;  right. 
Daniel  has  his  reasons,  of  course.  I  forgot.  That 
savage  at  the  postoffice  tried  to  interrogate  me;  tried 
to  draw  me.  I  was  close ;  on  guard  you  see.  Fellow 
in  the  wagon  tried;  still  on  guard.  You  caught  me. 
Blast  it  all,  I  like  you!  Fine  specimen  that  boy  of 
yours;  fine!" 

When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge  the  stranger 
looked  over  the  hills  with  exclamations  of  delight, 
"Grand,  sir ;  grand !  Wish  Sarah  and  the  girls  could 
see.  Don't  wonder  Daniel  staid.  That  Hollow  down 
there  you  say ;  way  down  there  ?  Mutton — Mutton 
Hollow  ?  Daniel  lives  there  ?  Blast  it  all ;  come  on, 
man ;  come  on." 

As  they  drew  near  the  house,  Pete  came  slowly  up 
the  Old  Trail  and  met  them  at  the  gate. 


293 


CHAPTEE  XXXVII. 
OLD  FRIENDS. 

>FTER  supper  Young  Matt  guided  the 
stranger  down  the  trail  to  the  sheep 
ranch  in  Mutton  Hollow. 

When  they  reached  the  edge  of  the 
clearing,  the  mountaineer  stopped.  "Yonder's  the 
cabin,  sir,  an'  Dad  is  there,  as  you  can  see  by  the 
smoke.  I  don't  reckon  you'll  need  me  any  more  now, 
an'  I'll  go  back.  We'll  be  mighty  glad  to  see  you  on 
the  ridge  any  time,  sir.  Any  friend  of  Dad's  is 
mighty  welcome  in  this  neighborhood." 

"Thank  you;  thank  you;  very  thoughtful;  verj 
thoughtful,  indeed;  fine  spirit,  fine.  I  shall  see  you 
again  when  Daniel  and  I  have  had  it  out.  Blast  it 
all ;  what  is  he  doing  here  ?  Good  night,  young  man ; 
good-night."  He  started  forward  impetuously.  Matt 
turned  back  toward  home. 

The  dog  barked  as  Dr.  Coughlan  approached  the 
cabin,  and  the  shepherd  came  to  the  open  door.  He 
had  been  washing  the  supper  dishes.  His  coat  was 
off,  his  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  and  his  sleeves 
rolled  above  his  elbows.  "Here,  Brave."  The  deep 
voice  rolled  across  the  little  clearing,  and  the  dog  ran 

294 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

to  stand  by  his  master's  side.  Then,  as  Mr.  Howitt 
took  in  the  unmistakable  figure  of  the  little  physician, 
he  put  out  a  hand  to  steady  himself. 

"Oh,  it's  me,  Daniel ;  it's  me.  Caught  you  didn't 
I  ?  Blast  it  all ;  might  have  known  I  would.  Bound 
to ;  bound  to,  Daniel ;  been  at  it  ever  since  I  lost  you. 
Visiting  in  Kansas  City  last  week  with  my  old 
friends,  the  Stewarts ;  young  fellow  there,  Ollie,  put 
me  right.  First  part  of  your  name,  description,  voice 
and  all  that ;  knew  it  was  you ;  knew  it.  Didn't  tell 
them,  though;  blasted  reporters  go  wild.  Didn't  tell 
a  soul,  not  a  soul.  Sarah  and  the  girls  think  I  am 
in  Kansas  City  or  Denver.  Didn't  tell  old  man 
Matthews,  either;  came  near,  though,  very  near. 
Blast  it  all ;  what  does  it  mean  ?  what  does  it  all 
mean  ?" 

In  his  excitement  the  little  man  spoke  rapidly  as 
he  hurried  toward  the  shepherd.  When  he  reached 
the  cabin,  the  two  friends,  so  different,  yet  so  alike, 
clasped  hands. 

As  soon  as  the  old  scholar  could  speak,  he  said, 
"David,  David!  To  think  that  this  is  really  you. 
You  of  all  men ;  you,  whom  I  most  needed." 

"Huh !"  grunted  the  other.  "Look  like  you  never 
needed  me  less.  Look  fit  for  anything,  anything ;  ten 
years  younger ;  every  bit  of  ten  years.  Blast  it  all ; 
what  have  you  done  to  yourself?  What  have  you 
done  ?"  He  looked  curiously  at  the  tanned  face  and 

295 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

rude  dress  of  his  friend.  "Bless  my  soul,  what  a 
change !  What  a  change !  Told  Matthews  you  were 
an  aristocrat.  He  wouldn't  believe  it.  Don't  wonder. 
Doubt  it  myself,  now." 

The  other  smiled  at  the  Doctor's  amazement.  "I 
suppose  I  have  changed  some,  David.  The  hills  have 
done  it.  Look  at  them !"  He  pointed  to  the  encir 
cling  mountains.  "See  how  calm  and  strong  they 
are ;  how  they  lift  their  heads  above  the  gloom.  They 
are  my  friends  and  companions,  David.  And  they 
have  given  me  of  their  calmness  and  strength  a  little. 
But  come  in,  come  in ;  you  must  be  very  tired.  How 
did  you  come  ?" 

The  doctor  followed  him  into  the  cabin.  "Rail 
road,  hack,  wagon,  walked.  Postoffice  last  night. 
Man  there  is  a  savage,  blasted  incorrigible  savage. 
Mill  this  afternoon.  Home  with  your  friends  on  the 
ridge.  Old  man  is  a  gentleman,  a  gentleman,  sir,  if 
God  ever  made  one.  His  boy's  like  him.  The 
mother,  she's  a  real  mother;  made  to  be  a  mother; 
couldn't  help  it.  And  that  young  woman,  with  the 
boy's  name,  bless  my  soul,  I  never  saw  such  a  creature 
before,  Daniel,  never!  If  I  had  J — I — Blast  it  all; 
I  wouldn't  be  bossed  by  Sarah  and  the  girls,  I 
wouldn't.  See  in  that  young  man  and  woman  what 
God  meant  men  and  women  to  be.  Told  them  they 
ought  to  marry;  that  they  owed  it  to  the  race.  You 
kno7?  my  ideas,  Daniel.  Think  they  will  ?" 

296 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  shepherd  laughed,  a  laugh  that  was  good  to 
hear. 

"What's  the  matter  now,  Daniel  ?  What  is  the 
matter  ?  Have  I  said  anything  wrong  again  ?  Blast 
it  all;  you  know  how  I  always  do  the  wrong  thing. 
Have  I  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  David;  you  are  exactly  right,"  re 
turned  Mr.  Howitt.  "But  tell  me,  did  you  see  no 
one  else  at  the  house?  There  is  another  member  of 
the  family." 

The  doctor  nodded.  "I  saw  him ;  Pete,  you  mean. 
Looked  him  over.  Mr.  Matthews  asked  me  to.  Sad 
case,  very  sad.  Hopeless,  absolutely  hopeless, 
Daniel." 

"Pete  has  not  seemed  as  well  as  usual  lately.  I 
fear  so  much  night  roaming  is  not  good  for  the  boy," 
returned  the  other  slowly.  "But  tell  me,  how  are 
Sarah  and  the  girls  ?  Still  looking  after  Dr.  Davie, 
I  suppose." 

"'Just  the  same;  haven't  changed  a  bit;  not  a  bit. 
Jennie  looks  after  my  socks  and  handkerchiefs ;  Mary 
looks  after  my  shirts  and  linen;  Anna  looks  after 
my  ties  and  shoes ;  Sue  looks  after  my  hats  and  coats ; 
and  Kate  looks  after  the  things  I  eat;  and  Sarah, 
Sarah  looks  after  everything  and  everybody,  same  as 
always.  Blast  it  all !  If  they'd  give  me  a  show,  I'd 
be  as  good  as  ever;  good  as  ever,  Daniel.  What  can 
a  man  do ;  what  can  a  man  do,  with  an  only  sister  and 

297 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

her  five  old  maid  daughters  looking  after  him  from 
morning  until  night,  from  morning  until  night, 
Daniel  ?  Tell  them  I  am  a  full  grown  man ;  don't  do 
no  good ;  no  good  at  all.  Blast  it  all ;  poor  old  things, 
just  got  to  mother  something;  got  to,  Daniel." 

While  he  was  speaking,  his  eyes  were  dancing  from 
one  object  to  another  in  the  shepherd's  rude  dwelling, 
turning  for  frequent  quick  glances  to  Dad  himself. 
" You  live  here,  you  ?  You  ought  not,  Daniel,  you 
ought  not.  What  would  Sarah  and  the  girls  say? 
Blast  it  all ;  what  do  you  mean  by  it  ?  I  ordered  you 
away  on  a  vacation.  You  disappear.  Think  you 
dead;  row  in  the  papers,  mystery!  I  hate  mystery. 
Blast  it  all ;  what  does  it  mean,  what  does  it  all  mean  ? 
Not  fair  to  me,  Daniel ;  not  fair." 

By  this  time  the  little  man  had  worked  himself  up 
to  an  astonishing  pitch  of  excitement;  his  eyes 
snapped ;  his  words  came  like  pistol  shots ;  his  ejacu 
lations  were  genuine  explosions.  He  tapped  with  his 
feet;  rapped  with  his  cane;  shook  his  finger;  and 
fidgeted  in  his  chair.  "We  want  you  back,  Daniel.  I 
want  you.  Church  will  want  you  when  they  know; 
looking  for  a  preacher  right  now.  I  come  after  you, 
Daniel.  Blast  it  all,  I'll  tell  Sarah  and  the  girls,  and 
they'll  come  after  you,  too.  Chicago  will  go  wild 
when  they  know  that  Daniel  Howitt  Cha — " 

"Stop!"  The  doctor  bounced  out  of  his  chair.  The 
shepherd  was  trembling,  and  his  voice  shook  with 

298 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

emotion.  "Forgive  me,  David.  But  that  name  must 
never  be  spoken  again,  never.  My  son  is  dead,  and 
that  name  died  with  him.  It  must  be  forgotten." 

The  physician  noted  hi  >  friend's  agitation  in 
amazement.  "There,  there,  Daniel.  I  didn't  mean 
to.  Thought  it  didn't  matter  when  we  were  alone. 
I — I — Blast  it  all!  Tell  me  Daniel,  what  do  you 
mean  by  this  strange  business,  thi,  very  strange  busi 
ness?" 

A  look  of  mingled  affection,  regret  and  pain,  came 
into  the  shepherd's  face,  as  he  replied,  "Let  me  tell 
you  the  story,  David,  and  you  will  understand." 

When  he  had  finished,  Mr.  Howitt  asked  gently, 
"Have  I  not  done  right,  David?  The  boy  is  gone. 
It  was  hard,  going  as  he  did.  But  I  am  glad,  now, 
for  Old  Matt  would  have  killed  him,  as  he  would 
kill  me  yet,  if  he  knew.  Thank  God,  we  have  not 
also  made  the  father  a  murderer.  Did  I  not  say 
rightly,  that  the  old  name  died  with  Howard  ?  Have 
I  not  done  well  to  stay  on  this  spot  and  to  give  my  life 
to  this  people  ?" 

"Quite  right,  Daniel;  quite  right.  You  always 
are.  It's  me  that  goes  wrong;  blundering,  bumping, 
smashing  into  things.  Blast  it  all !  I — I  don't  know 
what  to  say.  B — B — Blast  it  all !" 

The  hour  was  late  when  the  two  men  finally  retired 
for  the  night.  Long  after  his  heavy,  regular  breath 
ing  announced  that  the  doctor  was  sleeping  soundly, 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  shepherd  lay  wide  awake,  keenly  sensitive  to  every 
sound  that  stirred  in  the  forest.  Once  he  arose  from 
his  bed,  and  stepping  softly  left  the  cabin,  to  stand 
under  the  stars,  his  face  lifted  to  the  dark  summit  of 
Old  Dewey  and  the  hills  that  rimmed  the  Hollow. 
And  once,  when  the  first  light  of  day  came  over  the 
ridges,  he  went  to  the  bunk  where  his  friend  lay,  to 
look  thoughtfully  down  upon  the  sleeping  man. 

Breakfast  was  nearly  ready  when  Dr.  Coughlan 
awoke.  The  physician  saw  at  once  by  the  worn  and 
haggard  look  on  his  friend's  face  that  his  had  been  a 
sleepless  night.  It  was  as  though  all  the  pain  and 
trouble  of  the  old  days  had  returned.  The  little 
doctor  muttered  angrily  to  himself  while  the  shepherd 
was  gone  to  the  spring  for  water.  "Blast  it  all,  I'm 
a  fool,  a  meddlesome,  old  fool.  Ought  to  have  let 
well  enough  alone.  No  need  to  drag  him  back  into 
it  all  again;  no  need.  Do  no  good;  no  good  at  all." 

When  the  morning  meal  was  finished,  Mr.  Howitt 
said,  "David,  will  you  think  me  rude,  if  I  leave  you 
alone  today  ?  The  city  pavements  fits  one  but  poorly 
to  walk  these  hills  of  mine,  and  you  are  too  tired  after 
your  trip  and  the  loss  of  your  regular  sleep  to  go  with 
me  this  morning.  Stay  at  the  ranch  and  rest.  If  you 
care  to  read,  here  are  a  few  of  your  favorites.  Will 
you  mind  very  much?  I  should  like  to  be  alone  to 
day,  David." 

"Eight,  Daniel,  right.  I  understand.  Don't  say 
300 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

another  word;  not  a  word.  Go  ahead.     I'm  stiff  and 
sore  anyway;  just  suit  me." 

The  shepherd  arranged  everything  for  his  friend's 
comfort,  putting  things  in  readiness  for  his  noonday 
meal,  and  showing  him  the  spring.  Then,  taking  his 
own  lunch,  as  his  custom  was,  he  went  to  the  corral 
and  released  the  sheep.  The  doctor  watched  until 
the  last  of  the  flock  was  gone,  and  he  could  no  longer 
hear  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  and  the  bark  of  the  dog. 


301 


CHAPTER  XXXYIII. 
I  AIN'T  NOBODY  NO  MORE. 

ITU  the  coming  of  the  evening,  the  shep 
herd  returned  to  his  guest.  Dr.  Cough- 
Ian  heard  first  the  bells  on  the  leaders  of 
the  flock,  and  the  barking  of  the  dog 
coming  nearer  and  nearer  through  the  woods.  Soon 
the  sheep  appeared  trooping  out  of  the  twilight 
shadows  into  the  clearing ;  then  came  Brave  followed 
by  his  master. 

The  countenance  of  the  old  scholar  wore  again 
that  look  of  calm  strength  and  peace  that  had  marked 
it  before  the  coming  of  his  friend.  "Have  you  had  a 
good  rest,  David  ?  Or  has  your  day  been  long  and 
tiresome  ?  I  fear  it  was  not  kind  of  me  to  leave  you 
alone  in  this  wilderness." 

The  doctor  told  how  he  had  passed  the  time,  read 
ing,  sleeping  and  roaming  about  the  clearing  and  the 
nearby  woods.  "And  you,"  he  said,  looking  the  other 
over  with  a  professional  eye,  "you  look  like  a  new 
man ;  a  new  man,  Daniel.  How  do  you  do  it  ?  Some 
secret  spring  of  youth  in  the  wilderness?  Blast  it 
all,  wish  you  would  show  me.  Fool  Sarah  and  the 
girls,  fool  them,  sure." 

302 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"David,  have  you  forgotten  the  prescription  you 
gave  me  when  you  ordered  me  from  the  city  ?     You 
took  it  you  remember  from  one  of  our  favorite  vol 
umes."     The  shepherd  bared  his  head  and  repeated, 
"If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset. 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget ; 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills !    Xo  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Xature  wears." 
"David,  I  never  understood  until  the  past  months 
why  the  Master  so  often  withdrew  alone   into  the 
wilderness.     There  is  not  only  food  and  medicine  for 
one's  body;  there  is  also  healing  for  the  heart  and 
strength  for  the  soul  in  nature.     One  gets  very  close 
to    God,    David,    in    these    temples    of    God's    own 
building." 

Dr.  Coughlan  studied  his  old  friend  curiously; 
^Change  ;  remarkable  change  in  you !  Remarkable ! 
Xever  said  a  thing  like  that  in  all  your  life  before, 
never." 

The  shepherd  smiled,  "It's  your  prescription, 
Doctor,"  he  said. 

They  retired  early  that  evening,  for  the  physician 
declared  that  his  friend  must  need  the  rest.  "Talk 
tomorrow,"  he  said;  "all  day;  nothing  else  to  do." 
He  promptly  enforced  his  decision  by  retiring  to  his 
own  bunk,  leaving  the  shepherd  to  follow  his  example. 

30-1 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

But  not  until  the  doctor  was  sare  that  his  friend  was 
sleeping  soundly  did  he  permit  himself  to  sink  into 
unconsciousness. 

It  was  just  past  midnight,  when  the  shepherd  was 
aroused  by  the  doctor  striking  a  match  to  light  the 
lamp.  As  he  awoke,  he  heard  Pete's  voice,  "Where 
is  Dad  ?  Pete  wants  Dad." 

Dr.  Coughlan,  thinking  it  some  strange  freak  of 
the  boy's  disordered  brain,  and  not  wishing  to  break 
his  friend's  much  needed  rest,  was  trying  in  low  tones 
to  persuade  the  boy  to  wait  until  morning. 

"What  does  Pete  want  ?"  asked  the  shepherd  enter 
ing  the  room. 

"Pete  wants  Dad ;  Dad  and  the  other  man.  They 
must  sure  go  with  Pete  right  quick." 

"Go  where  with  Pete  ?  Who  told  Pete  to  come  for 
Dad  ?"  asked  Mr.  Howitt, 

"He  told  Pete.  Right  now,  he  said.  And  Pete  he 
come.  'Course  I  come  with  him.  Dad  must  go,  an' 
the  other  man  too,  'cause  he  said  so." 

In  sickness  or  in  trouble  of  any  kind  the  people 
for  miles  around  had  long  since  come  to  depend  upon 
the  shepherd  of  Mutton  Hollow.  The  old  man  turned 
now  to  the  doctor.  "Someone  needs  me,  David.  We 
must  go  with  the  boy." 

"But,  Daniel,  Daniel !  Blast  it  all  I  The  boy's  not 
responsible.  Where  will  he  take  us  ?  W^here  do  you 
want  us  to  go,  boy  ?" 

304 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Not  me;  not  me;  nobody  can't  go  nowhere,  can 
they  ?  You  go  with  Pete,  Mister." 

"Yes,  yes;  go  with  Pete;  but  where  will  Pete 
take  us  ?"  persisted  the  Doctor. 

"Pete  knows." 

"Now,  look  at  that,  Daniel !  Look  at  that.  Blast  it 
all ;  we  ought  not  go ;  not  in  the  night  this  way.  What 
would  Sarah  and  the  girls  say?"  Notwithstanding 
his  protests,  the  doctor  was  ready  even  before  the 
shepherd.  "Take  a  gun,  Daniel;  take  a  gun,  at 
least,"  he  said. 

The  other  hesitated,  then  asked,  "Does  Pete  want 
Dad  to  take  a  gun  ?" 

The  youth,  who  stood  in  the  doorway  waiting  im 
patiently,  shook  his  head  and  laughed,  "No,  no; 
nothing  can't  get  Dad  where  Pete  goes.  God  he's 
there  just  like  Dad  says." 

"It's  all  right,  David,"  said  the  shepherd  with  con 
viction.  "Pete  knows.  It  is  safe  to  trust  him  to 
night." 

And  the  boy  echoed,  as  he  started  forward,  "It's 
alright,  Mister ;  Pete  knows." 

"I  wish  you  had  your  medicine  case,  though, 
David,"  added  Mr.  Howitt,  as  they  followed  the  boy 
out  into  the  night. 

"Got  one,  Daniel ;  got  one.  Always  have  a  pocket 
3ase;  habit." 

Pete  led  the  way  down  the  road,  and  straight  to 
305 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  old  cabin  ruin  below  the  corral.  Though  the  stars 
were  hidden  behind  clouds,  it  was  a  little  light  in  the 
clearing;  but,  in  the  timber  under  the  shadow  of  the 
bluff,  it  was  very  dark.  The  two  men  were  soon  be 
wildered  and  stood  still.  "Which  way,  Pete?'7  said 
the  shepherd.  There  was  no  answer.  "Where's  Pete  ? 
Tell  Pete  to  come  here,''  said  Mr.  Howitt  again.  Still 
there  was  no  reply.  Their  guide  seemed  to  have  been 
swallowed  up  in  the  blackness.  They  listened  for  a 
sound.  "This  is  strange/'  mused  the  shepherd. 

A  grunt  of  disgust  came  from  the  doctor,  "Crazy, 
man,  crazy.  There's  three  of  us.  Which  way  is  the 
bouse  ?  Blast  it  all,  what  would — "  A  spot  of  light 
gleamed  under  the  bushes  not  fifty  feet  away. 

"Come,  Dad.    Come  on,  Pete's  ready." 

They  were  standing  close  to  the  old  cabin  under 
the  bluff.  In  a  narrow  space  between  the  log  wall  of 
the  nouse  and  the  cliff,  Pete  stood  with  a  lighted 
lantern.  The  farther  end  of  the  passage  was  com 
pletely  hidden  by  a  projection  of  the  rock ;  the  over 
hanging  roof  touched  the  ledge  above ;  while  the  open 
ing  near  the  men  was  concealed  by  the  heavy  growth 
of  ferns  and  vines  and  the  thick  branches  of  a  low 
cedar.  Even  in  daylight  the  place  would  have  escaped 
anything  but  a  most  careful  search. 

Dropping  to  his  knees  and  to  one  hand  the  shepherd 
pushed  uside  the  screen  of  vines  and  branches  with 
the  otik&r,  and  then  on  all  fours  crawled  into  ihe 

306 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

narrow  passage.  The  Doctor  followed.  They  found 
their  guide  crouching  in  a  small  opening  in  the  wall 
of  rock.  Mr.  Howitt  uttered  an  exclamation,  "The 
lost  cave !  Old  man  Dewey !" 

The  boy  laughed,  "Pete  knows.  Come,  Dad.  Come, 
other  man.  Ain't  nothin'  can  get  you  here."  He 
scrambled  ahead  of  them  into  the  low  tunnel.  Some 
twenty  feet  from  the  entrance,  the  passage  turned 
sharply  to  the  left  and  opened  suddenly  into  a  hall 
way  along  which  the  shepherd  could  easily  walk  erect. 
Pete  went  briskly  forward  as  one  on  very  familiar 
ground,  his  lantern  lighting  up  the  way  clearly  for 
his  two  companions. 

For  some  distance  their  course  dipped  downward  at 
a  gentle  angle,  while  the  ceilings  and  sides  dripped 
with  moisture.  Soon  they  heard  the  sound  of  run 
ning  water,  and  entering  a  wider  room  saw  sparkling 
in  the  lantern's  light  a  stream  that  came  from  under 
the  rocky  wall,  crossed  their  path,  and  disappeared 
under  the  other  wall  of  the  chamber.  "Lost  Creek !" 
ejaculated  the  shepherd,  as  he  picked  his  way  over 
the  stream  on  the  big  stones.  And  the  boy  answered, 
"Pete  knows.  Pete  knows." 

From  the  bank  of  the  creek  the  path  climbed 
strongly  upward,  the  footing  grew  firmer,  and  the 
walls  and  ceiling  drier ;  as  they  went  on,  the  passage, 
too,  grew  wider  and  higher,  until  they  found  them- 
selres  in  a  large  underground  hallway  that  echoed 

307 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

loudly  as  they  walked.  Overhead,  pure  white  stalac 
tites  and  frost-like  formations  glittered  in  the  light, 
and  the  walls  were  broken  by  dark  nooks  and  shelf- 
like  ledges  with  here  and  there  openings  leading  who 
could  tell  where? 

At  the  farther  end  of  this  hallway  where  the  ceil 
ing  was  highest,  the  guide  paused  at  the  foot  of  a 
ledge  against  which  rested  a  rude  ladder.  The  shep 
herd  spoke  again,  "Dewey  Bald?"  he  asked.  Pete 
nodded,  and  began  to  climb  the  ladder. 

Another  room,  and  another  ledge ;  then  a  long  nar 
row  passage,  the  ceiling  of  which  was  so  high  that  it 
was  beyond  the  lantern  light ;  then  a  series  of  ledges, 
and  they  saw  that  they  were  climbing  from  shelf  to 
shelf  on  one  side  of  an  underground  canon.  Follow 
ing  along  the  edge  of  the  chasm,  the  doctor  pushed  a 
stone  over  the  brink,  and  they  heard  it  go  bounding 
from  ledge  to  ledge  into  the  dark  heart  of  the  moun 
tain.  "No  bottom,  Daniel.  Blast  it  all,  no  bottom 
to  it !  What  would  Sarah  and  the  girls  say  ?" 

They  climbed  one  more  ladder  and  then  turned 
from  the  canon  into  another  great  chamber,  the 
largest  they  had  entered.  The  floor  was  perfectly 
dry;  the  air,  too,  was  dry  and  pure;  and,  from  what 
seemed  to  be  the  opposite  side  of  the  huge  cavern,  a 
light  gleamed  like  a  red  eye  in  the  darkness.  They 
were  evidently  near  ing  the  end  of  their  journey. 
Drawing  closer  they  found  that  the  light  came  from 

308 


THE  SHEPHEED  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  window  of  a  small  cabin  built  partly  of  rock  and 
partly  of  logs. 

Instinctively  the  two  men  stopped.  Pete  said  in  a 
low  tone,  as  one  would  speak  in  a  sacred  presence, 
"He  is  there.  Come  on,  Dad.  Come,  other  man. 
Don't  be  sc^mi." 

Still  the  boy's  companions  hesitated.  Mr.  Howitt 
asked,  "Who,  boy  ?  who  is  there  ?  Do  you  know  who 
it  is  ?" 

"Xo,  no,  not  me.  Nobody  can't  know  nothin1,  can 
they?" 

"Hopeless  case,  Daniel;  hopeless.  Too  bad,  too 
bad,"  muttered  the  physician,  laying  his  hand  upon 
his  friend's  shoulder. 

The  shepherd  tried  again,  "Who  does  Pete  say 
it  is  ?" 

"Oh,  Pete  says  it's  him,  just  him." 

"But  who  does  Pete  say  he  is  ?"  suggested  Dr. 
Coughlan. 

Again  the  boy's  voice  lowered  to  a  whisper,  "Some 
times  Pete  says  it  must  be  God,  'cause  he's  so  good. 
Dad  says  God  is  good  an'  that  he  takes  care  of  folks, 
an'  he  sure  does  that.  'Twas  him  that  scared  Wash 
Gibbs  an'  his  crowd  that  night.  An'  he  sent  the 
gold  to  you,  Dad;  God's  gold  it  was;  he's  got  heaps 
of  it.  He  killed  that  panther,  too,  when  it  was  a 
goin'  to  fight  Young  Matt.  Pete  knows.  You  see, 
Dad,  when  Pete  is  with  him,  I  ain't  nobody  no  more. 

309 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

I'm  just  Pete  then,  an'  Pete  is  me.  Funny,  ain't  it! 
But  he  says  that's  the  way  it  is,  an'  he  sure  knows." 

The  two  friends  listened  with  breathless  interest. 
"And  what  does  Pete  call  him?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Pete  calls  him  father,  like  Dad  calls  God.  He 
talks  to  God,  too,  like  Dad  does.  Do  yrriii^ckon  God 
would  talk  to  God,  mister  ?" 

With  a  cry  the  shepherd  reeled.  The  doctor  caught 
him.  "Strong,  Daniel,  strong."  Pete  drew  away 
from  the  two  men  in  alarm. 

The  old  scholar's  agitation  was  pitiful.  "David, 
David;  tell  me,  what  is  this  thing?  Can  it  be — my 
boy — Howard,  my  son — can  it  be  ?  My  God,  David, 
what  am  I  saying?  He  is  dead.  Dead,  I  tell  you. 
Can  the  dead  come  back  from  the  grave,  David  ?" 
He  broke  from  his  friend  and  ran  staggering  toward 
the  cabin ;  but  at  the  door  he  stopped  again.  It  was 
as  if  he  longed  yet  feared  to  enter,  and  the  doctor 
and  the  boy  came  to  his  side.  Without  ceremony 
Pete  pushed  open  the  door. 

The  room  was  furnished  with  a  cupboard,  table 
and  small  cook  stove.  It  was  evidently  a  living 
room.  Through  a  curtained  opening  at  the  right,  a 
light  showed  from  another  apartment,  and  a  voice 
called,  "Is  that  you,  Pete?" 

A  look  of  pride  came  into  the  face  of  the  lad. 
"That's  me,"  he  whispered.  "I'm  Pete  here,  an' 
Pete  is  me.  It's  always  that  way  with  him.*' 

310 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Aloud,  lie  said,  "Yes,  Father,  it's  Pete.  Pete,  air 
Dad,  an'  the  other  man."  As  he  spoke  he  drew 
aside  the  curtain. 

For  an  instant  the  two  men  paused  on  the  thresh 
old.  The  room  was  small,  and  nearly  bare  of  furni 
ture.  In  the  full  glare  of  the  lamp,  so  shaded  as  to 
throw  the  rest  of  the  room  in  deep  shadow,  hung  a 
painting  that  seemed  to  fill  the  rude  chamber  with 
its  beauty.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  young  woman, 
standing  by  a  spring  of  water,  a  cup  brimming  full 
in  her  outstretched  hand. 

On  a  bed  in  the  shadow,  facing  the  picture,  lay  a 
man.     A  voice  faltered,  "Father     Dr.  Coughlan." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
A  MATTER  OF  HOURS. 


can — you — can — you 


(ATHER— Father; 

— forgive  me  ?" 

The  man  on  his  knees  raised  his  head. 

"Forgive  you,  my  son?  Forgive  you? 
My  dear  boy,  there  has  never  been  in  my  heart  a 
thought  but  of  love  and  sympathy.  Pain  there  has 
been,  I  can't  deny,  but  it  has  helped  me  to  know  what 
you  have  suffered.  I  understand  it  now,  my  boy. 
I  understand  it  all,  for  I,  too,  have  felt  it.  But 
when  I  first  knew,  even  beneath  all  the  hurt,  I  was 
glad — glad  to  know,  I  mean.  It  is  a  father's  right 
to  suffer  with  his  child,  my  son.  It  hurt  most,  when 
the  secret  stood  between  us,  and  I  could  not  enter 
into  your  life,  but  I  understand  that,  too.  I  under 
stand  why  you  could  not  tell  me.  I,  too,  came  away 
because  I  was  not  strong  enough." 

"I — I  thought  it  would  be  easier  for  you  never  to 
know,"  said  the  son  as  he  lay  on  the  bed.  "I  am — 
sorry,  now.  And  I  am  glad  that  you  know.  But  I 
must  tell  you  all  about  it  just  the  same.  I  must  tell 
you  myself,  you  see,  so  that  it  will  be  all  clear  and 
straight  when  I — when  I  go."  He  turned  his  eyes 
to  the  picture  on  the  wall. 

312 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"When  you  go  ?" 

Howard  laid  a  hand  upon  the  gray  head.  "Poor 
father;  yes,  I  am  going.  It  was  an  accident,  but  it 
was  a  kindness.  It  will  be  much  better  that  way — 
only — only  I  am  sorry  for  you,  father.  I  thought  I 
could  save  you  all  this.  I  intended  to  slip  quietly 
away  without  your  ever  knowing,  but  when  Pete  said 
that  Dr.  Coughlan  was  here,  I  could  not  go  without — 
without — " 

The  little  doctor  came  forward.  "I  am  a  fool, 
Howard,  an  old  fool.  Blast  it  all ;  no  business  to  go 
poking  into  this;  no  business  at  all!  Daniel  would 
have  sent  if  he  had  wanted  me.  Ought  to  have 
known.  Old  native  can  give  me  lessons  on  being  a 
gentleman  every  time.  Blast  it  all !  What's  wrong, 
Howard  ?  Get  hurt  ?  Xow  I  am  here,  might  as  well 
be  useful." 

"Indeed,  Doctor,  you  did  right  to  come.  You  will 
be  such  a  help  to  father.  You  will  help  us  both,  just 
as  you  have  always  done.  Will  you  excuse  us,  father, 
while  Dr.  Coughlan  looks  at  this  thing  here  in  my 
side?" 

The  physician  arranged  the  light  so  that  it  shone 
full  upon  the  man  on  the  bed,  then  carefully  removed 
the  bandages  from  an  ugly  wound  in  the  artist's  side. 
Dr.  Coughlan  looked  very  grave.  "When  did  this 
happen,  Howard  ?" 

"T — I  can't  tell  exactly.  You  see  I  thought  at 
313 


THE  SHEPHERD  DE  THE  HILLS 

first  I  could  get  along  with  Pete  to  help,  and  I  did, 
for  a  week,  I  guess.  Then  things — didn't  go  so  well. 
Some  fever,  I  think,  for  she — she  came."  He 
turned  his  eyes  toward  the  picture  again.  "And  I — 
I  lost  all  track  of  time.  It  was  the  night  of  the 
eighteenth.  Father  will  know." 

"Two  weeks,"  muttered  the  physician. 

A  low  exclamation  came  from  the  shepherd.  "It 
was  you — you  who  brought  the  horses  to  the  ranch 
that  night  ?" 

The  artist  smiled  grimly.  "The  officers  saw  me, 
and  thought  that  I  was  one  of  the  men  they  wanted. 
It's  alright,  though."  The  old  scholar  instinctively 
lifted  his  hands  and  looked  at  them.  He  remem 
bered  the  saddle,  wet  with  blood. 

Making  a  careful  examination,  the  doctor  asked 
more  questions.  When  he  had  finished  and  had 
skilfully  replaced  the  bandages,  the  wounded  man 
asked,  "What  about  it,  Dr.  Coughlan?"  The  kind 
hearted  physician  jerked  out  a  volley  of  scientific 
words  and  phrases  that  meant  nothing,  and  busied 
himself  with  his  medicine  case. 

When  his  patient  had  taken  the  medicine,  the 
doctor  watched  him  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
asked,  "Eeel  stronger,  Howard?" 

The  artist  nodded.  "Tell  me  the  truth,  now,  Doc 
tor.  I  know  that  I  am  going.  But  how  long  have  I  ? 
Wait  a  minute  first.  Where's  Pete?  Come  here, 

f>  -*    A 

314 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

my  boy."  The  lad  drew  near.  "Father."  Mr. 
Howitt  seated  himself  on  the  bedside.  "You'll  be 
strong,  father?  We  are  ready  now,  Dr.  Coughlan." 

"Yes,  tell  us,  David,"  said  the  shepherd,  and  his 
voice  was  steady. 

The  physician  spoke,  "Matter  of  hours,  I  would 
say.  Twenty-four,  perhaps;  not  more;  not  more." 

"There  is  no  possible  chance,  David?"  asked  the 
shepherd. 

Again  the  little  doctor  took  refuge  behind  a  broad 
side  of  scientific  terms  before  replying,  "No ;  no  pos 
sible  chance." 

A  groan  slipped  from  the  gray  bearded  lips  of  the 
father.  The  artist  turned  to  the  picture  and  smiled. 
Pete  looked  wonderingly  from  face  to  face. 

"Poor  father,"  said  the  artist.  "One  thing  more, 
Doctor;  can  you  keep  up  my  strength  for  awhile?" 

"Reasonably  well,  reasonably  well,  Howard." 

"I  am  so  glad  of  that  because  there  is  much  to  do 
before  I  go.  There  is  so  much  that  must  be  done 
first,  and  I  want  you  both  to  help  me." 


315 


CHAPTER  XL. 
THE  SHEPHERD'S  MISSION. 


the  latter  part  of  that  night  and 
T\  \  most  of  the  day,  it  rained;  a  fine,  slow, 
quiet  rain,  with  no  wind  to  shake  the  wet 
from  burdened  leaf  or  blade.  But  when 
the  old  shepherd  left  the  cave  by  a  narrow  opening 
on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  near  Sammy's  Lookout, 
the  sky  was  clear.  The  mists  rolled  heavily  over  the 
valley,  but  the  last  of  the  sunlight  was  warm  on  the 
knobs  and  ridges. 

The  old  man  paused  behind  the  rock  and  bushes 
that  concealed  the  mouth  of  the  underground  passage. 
Not  a  hundred  feet  below  was  the  Old  Trail;  he 
followed  the  little  path  with  his  eye  until  it  vanished 
around  the  shoulder  of  Dewey.  Along  that  way  he 
had  come  into  the  hills.  Then  lifting  his  eyes  to 
the  far  away  lines  of  darker  blue,  his  mind  looked 
over  the  ridge  to  the  world  that  is  on  the  other  side, 
the  world  from  which  he  had  fled.  It  all  seemed 
very  small  and  mean,  now;  it  was  so  far  —  so  far 
away. 

He  started  as  the  sharp  ring  of  a  horse's  iron  shoe 
on  the  flint  rocks  came  from  beyond  the  Lookout, 

316 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

and,  safely  hidden,  he  saw  a  neighbor  round  the  hill 
and  pass  on  his  way  to  the  store  on  Koark.  He 
watched,  as  horse  and  rider  followed  the  Old  Trail 
around  the  rim  of  the  Hollow;  watched,  until  they 
passed  from  sight  in  the  belt  of  timber.  Then  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  a  fine  thread  of  smoke  that  curled 
above  the  trees  on  the  Matthews  place;  and,  leaving 
the  shelter  of  rock  and  bush,  he  walked  along  the 
Old  Trail  toward  the  big  log  house  on  the  distant 
ridge. 

Below  him,  on  his  left,  Mutton  Hollow  lay  sub 
merged  in  the  drifting  mists,  with  only  a  faint  line 
of  light  breaking  now  and  then  where  Lost  Creek 
made  its  way;  and  on  the  other  side  Compton  Ridge 
lifted  like  a  wooded  shore  from  the  sea.  A  black 
spot  in  the  red  west  shaped  itself  into  a  crow,  making 
his  way  on  easy  wing  toward  a  dead  tree  on  the  top 
of  Boulder  Bald.  The  old  shepherd  walked  wearily ; 
the  now  familiar  objects  wore  a  strange  look.  It  was 
as  though  he  saw  them  for  the  first  time,  yet  had 
seen  them  somewhere  before,  perhaps  in  another 
world.  As  he  went  his  face  was  the  face  of  one 
crushed  by  shame  and  grief,  made  desperate  by  his 
suffering. 

Supper  was  just  over  and  Young  Matt  was  on  the 
porch  when  Mr.  Howitt  entered  the  gate.  The  young 
fellow  greeted  his  old  friend,  and  called  back  into 
the  house,  "Here's  Dad,  Father."  As  Mr.  Matthews 

317 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

came  out,  Aunt  Mollie  and  Sammy  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  How  like  it  all  was  to  that  other  evening. 

The  mountaineer  and  the  shepherd  sat  on  the  front 
porch,  while  Young  Matt  brought  the  big  sorrel  and 
the  brown  pony  to  the  gate,  and  with  Sammy  rode 
away.  They  were  going  to  the  Postoffice  at  the 
Forks.  "Ain't  had  no  news  for  a  week,"  said  Aunt 
Mollie,  as  she  brought  her  chair  to  join  the  two 
men.  "And  besides,  Sammy  needs  the  ride.  There's 
goin'  to  be  a  moon,  so  it'll  be  light  by  the  time  they 
start  home." 

The  sound  of  the  horses'  feet  and  the  voices  of  the 
young  people  died  away  in  the  gray  woods.  The 
dusk  thickened  in  the  valley  below,  and,  as  the  light 
in  the  west  went  out,  the  three  friends  saw  the  clump 
of  pines  etched  black  and  sharp  against  the  blood  red 
background  of  the  sky. 

Old  Matt  spoke,  "Keckon  everything's  alright  at 
the  ranch,  Dad.  How's  the  little  doctor  ?  You 
ought  to  brung  him  up  with  you."  He  watched  the 
shepherd's  face  curiously  from  under  his  heavy 
brows,  as  he  pulled  at  his  cob  pipe. 

"Tired  out  trampin'  over  these  hills,  I  reckon," 
ventured  Aunt  Mollie.  Mr.  Howitt  tried  to  answer 
with  some  commonplace,  but  his  friends  could  not 
but  note  his  confusion.  Mrs.  Matthews  continued, 
"I  guess  you'll  be  a  leavin'  us  pretty  soon,  now. 


318 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

Well,  I  ain't  a  blamin'  you ;  and  you've  sure  been  a 
God's  blessin'  to  us  here  in  the  woods.  I  don't  reckon 
we're  much  'long  side  the  fine  friends  you've  got  back 
where  you  come  from  in  the  city;  and  we — we  can't 
do  nothin'  for  you,  but — but — "  The  good  soul  could 
say  no  more. 

"We've  often  wondered,  sir/'  added  Old  Matt, 
"how  you've  stood  it  here,  an  educated  man  like  you. 
I  reckon,  though,  there's  somethin'  deep  under  it  all, 
keepin'  you  up;  somethin'  that  ignorant  folks,  with 
out  no  education,  like  us,  can't  understand." 

The  old  scholar  could  have  cried  aloud,  but  he  was 
forced  to  sit  dumb  while  the  other  continued,  "You're 
goin'  won't  make  no  difference,  though,  with  what 
you've  done.  This  neighborhood  won't  never  go  back 
to  what  it  was  before  you  come.  It  can't  with  all 
you've  taught  us,  and  with  Sammy  stayin'  here  to 
keep  it  up.  It'll  be  mighty  hard,  though,  to  have 
you  go ;  it  sure  will,  Mr.  Howitt." 

Looking  up,  the  shepherd  said  quietly,  "I  expect 
to  live  here  until  the  end  if  you  will  let  me.  But  I 
fear  you  will  not  want  me  to  stay  when  you  know 
what  I've  come  to  tell  you  this  evening." 

The  mountaineer  straightened  his  huge  form  as  he 
returned,  "Dad,  there  ain't  nothin'  on  earth  or  in  hell 
could  change  what  we  think  of  you,  and  we  don't 
want  to  hear  nothin'  about  you  that  you  don't  like  to 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

tell  us.  We  ain't  a  carin'  what  sent  you  to  the  hills, 
We're  takin'  you  for  what  you  are.  And  there  ain't 
nothin'  can  change  that." 

"Not  even  if  it  should  be  the  grave  under  the  pine 
yonder  ?"  asked  the  other  in  a  low  voice. 
i      Old  Matt  looked  at  him  in  a  half  frightened  way, 
as  though,  without  knowing  why,  he  feared  what  the 
shepherd  would  say  next.     Mr.  Howitt  felt  the  look 
and  hesitated.     He  was  like  one  on  a  desperate  mis 
sion  in  the  heart  of  an  enemy's  country,  feeling  his 
way.     Was  the  strong  man's  passion  really  tame  ? 
Or  was  his  fury  only  sleeping,  waiting  to  destroy  the 
one  who  should  wake  it  ?    Who  could  tell  ? 

The  old  scholar  looked  away  to  Dewey  Bald  for 
strength.  "Mr.  Matthews,"  he  said,  "you  once  told 
me  a  story.  It  was  here  on  this  porch  when  I  first 
came  to  you.  It  was  a  sad  tale  of  a  great  crime. 
Tonight  I  know  the  other  side  of  that  story.  I've 
come  to  tell  you." 

At  the  strange  words  Aunt  Mollie's  face  turned 
as  white  as  her  apron.  Old  Matt  grasped  the  arms 
of  his  chair,  as  though  he  would  crush  the  wood,  as 
he  said  shc/rtly,  "Go  on.'? 

At  the  tone  of  his  voice,  the  old  shepherd's  heart 
sank. 


CHAPTER  XLL 
THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  STORY 


w 


II TH  a  prayer  in  his  heart  for  the  boy  who 
lay  dying  in  that  strange  underground 
chamber,  the  artist's  father  began. 

"It  is  the  story,  Mr.  Matthews,  of  a 
man  and  his  only  son,  the  last  of  their  family.  With 
them  will  perish — has  perished  one  of  the  oldest  and 
proudest  names  in  our  country. 

"From  his  childhood  this  man  was  taught  the 
honored  traditions  of  his  people,  and,  thus  trained 
in  pride  of  ancestry,  grew  up  to  believe  that  the  su 
preme  things  of  life  are  what  his  kind  call  educa 
tion,  refinement,  and  culture.  In  his  shallow  egotism, 
he  came  to  measure  all  life  by  the  standards  of  his 
people. 

"It  was  in  keeping  with  this  that  the  man  should 
enter  the  pulpit  of  the  church  of  his  ancestors,  and 
it  was  due  very  largely,  no  doubt,  to  the  same  ances 
tral  influence  that  he  became  what  the  world  calls  a 
successful  minister  of  the  gospel.  But  Christianity 
to  him  was  but  little  more  than  culture,  and  his  place 
in  the  church  merely  an  opporti-jiity  to  add  to  the 
honor  of  his  name.  Soon  after  leaving  the  seminary, 

321 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

he  married.  The  crowning  moment  of  his  life  wag 
when  his  first  born — a  boy — was  laid  in  his  arms* 
The  second  child  was  a  girl ;  there  were  no  more. 

"For  ten  years  before  her  death  the  wife  was  an 
invalid.  The  little  girl,  too,  was  never  strong,  and 
six  months  after  they  buried  the  mother  the  daughter 
was  laid  beside  her. 

"You,  sir,  can  understand  how  the  father  lavished 
every  care  upon  his  son.  The  first  offspring  of  the 
parents'  love,  the  sole  survivor  of  his  homev  and  the 
last  to  bear  the  name  of  a  family  centuries  old,  he 
was  the  only  hope  of  a  proud  man's  ambition. 

"The  boy  was  a  beautiful  child,  a  delicate,  sensi 
tive  soul  in  a  body  of  uncommon  physical  grace  and 
strength,  and  the  proud  father  loved  to  think  of  him 
as  the  flower  of  long  ages  of  culture  and  refinement. 
The  minister,  himself,  jealously  educated  his  son,  and 
the  two  grew  to  be  friends,  sir,  constant  companions. 
This,  also,  you  will  understand — you  and  your  boy* 
But  with  all  this  the  young  man  did  not  follow  his 
father  in  choosing  his  profession.  He — he  became 
an  artist." 

Old  Matt  started  from  his  seat  Aunt  Mollie 
uttered  an  exclamation.  But  the  shepherd,  without 
pausing,  continued :  "When  his  schooling  was  com 
pleted  the  boy  came  into  the  Ozarks  one  summer  to 
spend  the  season  painting.  The  man  had  expected 
to  go  with  his  son.  For  months  they  had  planned 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  trip  together,  but  at  last  something  prevented, 
and  the  father  could  not  go — no,  he  could  not  go — " 
The  speaker's  voice  broke;  the  big  mountaineer  was 
breathing  hard ;  Aunt  Mollie  was  crying. 

Presently  Mr.  Howitt  went  on.  "When  the  young 
artist  returned  to  his  father,  among  many  sketches 
of  the  mountains,  he  brought  one  painting  that  re 
ceived  instant  recognition.  The  people  stood  before 
it  in  crowds  when  it  was  exhibited  in  the  art  gallery ; 
the  papers  were  extravagant  in  their  praise ;  the  artist 
became  famous;  and  wealthy  patrons  came  to  his 
studio  to  sit  for  their  portraits.  The  picture  was  of 
a  beautiful  girl,  standing  by  a  spring,  holding  out  a 
dripping  cup  of  water." 

At  this  a  wild  oath  burst  from  the  giant.  Spring 
ing  to  his  feet,  he  started  toward  the  speaker.  Aunt 
Mollie  screamed,  "Grant,  oh  Grant!  Think  what 
Dad  has  done  for  us."  The  mountaineer  paused. 

"Mr.  Matthews,"  said  the  shepherd,  in  trembling 
tones,  "for  my  sake,  will  you  not  hear  me  to  the  end  ? 
for  my  sake  ?" 

The  big  man  dropped  back  heavily  into  his  chair. 
"Go  on,"  he  said.  But  his  voice  was  as  the  growl 
of  a  beast. 

"The  boy  loved  your  girl,  Mr.  Matthews.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  left  his  soul  in  the  hills.  Night 
and  day  he  heard  her  calling.  The  more  his  work 
was  praised,  the  more  his  friends  talked  of  honors 

323 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  planned  his  future,  the  keener  was  his  suffering, 
and  most  of  all  there  was  the  shadow  that  had  come 
between  him  and  his  father,  breaking  the  old  com 
radeship,  and  causing  them  to  shun  each  other; 
though  the  father  never  knew  why.  The  poor  boy 
grew  morose  and  despondent,  giving  way  at  times  to 
spells  of  the  deepest  depression.  He  tried  to  lose 
himself  in  his  work.  He  fled  abroad  and  lived  alone. 
It  seemed  a  blight  had  fallen  on  his  soul.  The  world 
called  him  mad.  Many  times  he  planned  to  take  his 
life,  but  always  the  hope  of  meeting  her  again  stopped 
him. 

"At  last  he  returned  to  this  country  determined  to 
see  her  at  any  cost,  and,  if  possible,  gain  her  forgive 
ness  and  his  father's  consent  to  their  marriage.  He 
came  into  the  hills  only  to  find  that  the  mother  of 
his  child  had  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

"Then  came  the  end.  The  artist  disappeared, 
leaving  a  long,  pitiful  letter,  saying  that  before  the 
word  reached  his  father,  he  would  be  dead.  The 
most  careful  investigation  brought  nothing  but  con 
vincing  evidence  that  the  unhappy  boy  had  taken  his 
own  life.  The  artist  knew  that  it  would  be  a  thou 
sand  times  easier  for  the  proud  man  to  think  his 
son  dead  than  for  him  to  know  the  truth,  and  he 
was  right.  Mr.  Matthews,  he  was  right.  I  cannot 
tell  you  of  the  man's  suffering,  but  he  found  a  little 
comfort  in  the  reflection  that  such  extravagant  praise 

324 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  his  son's  work  had  added  to  the  honor  of  the 
family,  for  the  lad's  death  was  held  by  all  to  he  the 
result  of  a  disordered  mind.  There  was  not  a  whis 
per  of  wrong  doing.  His  life,  they  said,  was  without 
reproach,  and  even  his  sad  mental  condition  was  held 
to  be  evidence  of  his  great  genius. 

"The  minister  was  weak,  sir.  He  knew  something 
of  the  intellectual  side  of  his  religion  and  the  his 
tory  of  his  church,  but  he  knew  little,  very  little,  of 
the  God  that  could  sustain  him  in  such  a  trial.  He 
was  shamefully  weak.  He  tried  to  run  away  from 
his  trouble,  and,  because  the  papers  had  made  so 
much  of  his  work  as  a  preacher,  and  because  of  his 
son's  fame,  he  gave  only  the  first  part  of  his  name, 
thinking  thus  to  get  away  from  it  all  for  a  season. 

"But  God  was  to  teach  the  proud  man  of  culture 
and  religious  forms  a  great  lesson,  and  to  that  end 
directed  his  steps.  He  was  led  here,  here,  sir,  to  your 
home,  and  you — you  told  him  the  story  of  his  son's 
crime." 

The  shepherd  paused.  A  hoarse  whisper  came 
from  the  giant  in  the  chair,  "You — you,  Dad,  your — 
name  is — " 

The  other  threw  out  his  hand,  as  if  to  guard  him 
self,  and  shrank  back;  "Hush,  oh  hush!  I  have  no 
name  but  the  name  by  which  you  know  me.  The 
man  who  bore  that  name  is  dead.  In  all  his  pride 
&f  intellect  and  position  he  died.  Your  prayers  for 

325 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

vengeance  were  answered,  sir.  You — you  killed 
him;  killed  him  as  truly  as  if  you  had  plunged  a 
knife  into  his  heart;  and  you — did — well." 

Aunt  Mollie  moaned. 

:'Is  that  all  ?"  growled  the  mountaineer. 

"All!  God,  no!  I — I  must  go  on.  I  must  tell 
(you  how  the  man  you  killed  staid  in  the  hills  and  was 
born  again.  There  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do 
but  stay  in  the  hills.  With  the  shame  and  horror  of 
his  boy's  disgrace  on  his  heart,  he  could  not  go  back — 
back  to  the  city,  his  friends  and  his  church — to  the 
old  life.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  hope  to  deceive 
them.  He  was  not  skilled  in  hiding  things.  Every 
kind  word  in  praise  of  himself,  or  in  praise  of  his 
son,  would  have  been  keenest  torture.  He  was  a 
coward ;  he  dared  not  go  back.  His  secret  would  have 
driven  him  mad,  and  he  would  have  ended  it  all  as 
his  son  had  done.  His  only  hope  for  peace  was  to 
stay  here ;  here  on  the  very  spot  where  the  wrong  was 
done,  and  to  do  what  little  he  could  to  atone  for  the 
crime. 

"At  first  it  was  terrible;  the  long,  lonely  nights 
with  no  human  friend  near;  the  weight  of  shame; 
the  memories ;  and  the  lonely  wind — always  the  wind 
—in  the  trees — her  voice,  Pete  said,  calling  for  him 
to  come.  God,  sir,  I  wonder  the  man  did  not  die 
under  his  punishment ! 

"But  God  is  good,  Mr.  Matthews.     God  is  good 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

and  merciful.  Every  day  out  on  the  range  with  the 
sheep,  the  man  felt  the  spirit  of  the  hills,  and  little 
by  little  their  strength  and  their  peace  entered  into 
his  life.  The  minister  learned  here,  sir,  what  he  had 
not  learned  in  all  his  theological  studies.  He  learned 
to  know  God,  the  God  of  these  mountains.  The  hills 
taught  him,  and  they  came  at  last  to  stand  between 
him  and  the  trouble  from  which  he  had  fled.  The 
nights  were  no  longer  weary  and  long.  He  was  never 
alone.  The  voices  in  the  wilderness  became  friendly 
voices,  for  he  learned  their  speech,  and  the  poor  girl 
ceased  to  call  in  the  wailing  wind.  Then  Dr. 
Coughlan  came,  and — " 

Again  the  shepherd  stopped.  He  could  not  go  on. 
The  light  was  gone  from  the  sky  and  he  felt  the 
blackness  of  the  night.  But  against  the  stars  he  could 
still  see  the  crown  of  the  mountain  where  his  son 
lay.  When  he  had  gathered  strength,  he  continued, 
saying  simply,  "Dr.  Coughlan  came,  and — last  night 
we  learned  that  my  son  was  not  dead  but  living.'' 

Again  that  growl  like  the  growl  of  a  wild  beast 
came  from  the  mountaineer.  Silently  Mr.  Howitt 
prayed.  "Go  on,"  came  the  command  in  hoarse 
tones. 

In  halting,  broken  words,  the  shepherd  faltered 
through  the  rest  of  his  story  as  he  told  how,  while 
using  the  cabin  under  the  cliff  as  a  studio,  the  artist 
had  discovered  the  passage  to  the  old  Dewey  cave; 

327 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

how,  since  his  supposed  death,  he  had  spent  the  sum 
mers  at  the  scene  of  his  former  happiness;  how  he 
had  met  his  son  roaming  the  hills  at  night,  and  had 
been  able  to  have  the  boy  with  him  much  of  the  time ; 
how  he  had  been  wounded  the  night  Jim  Lane  was 
killed ;  and  finally  how  Pete  had  led  them  to  his  bed 
side. 

aHe  is  dying  yonder.  Dr.  Coughlan  is  with  him — 
and  Pete — Pete  is  there,  too.  I — I  came  for  you. 
He  is  calling  for  you.  I  came  to  tell  you.  All  that 
a  man  may  suffer  here,  he  has  suffered,  sir.  Your 
prayer  has  been  doubly  answered,  Mr.  Matthews. 
Both  father  and  son  are  dead.  The  name — the  old 
name  is  perished  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  For 
Christ's  dear  sake,  forgive  my  boy,  and  let  him  go. 
For  my  sake,  sir,  I — I  can  bear  no  more." 

Who  but  He  that  looketh  upon  the  heart  of  man 
could  know  the  battle  that  was  fought  in  the  soul  of 
that  giant  of  the  hills  ?  He  uttered  no  sound.  He 
sat  in  his  seat  as  if  made  of  stone ;  save  once,  when 
he  walked  to  the  end  of  the  porch  to  stand  with 
clenched  hands  and  passion  shaken  frame,  facing  the 
dark  clump  of  pines  on  the  hill. 

Slowly  the  moon  climbed  over  the  ridge  and  lighted 
the  scene.  The  mountaineer  returned  to  his  chair. 
All  at  once  he  raised  his  head,  and,  leaning  forward, 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  old  shepherd,  where 
he  sat  crouching  like  a  convict  awaiting  sentence. 

328 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

From  down  the  mill  road  came  voices  and  the 
sound  of  horses'  feet.  Old  Matt  started,  turning  his 
head  a  moment  to  listen.  The  horses  stopped  at  the 
lower  gate. 

"The  children,"  said  Aunt  Mollie  softly.  "Tie 
children.  Grant,  Oh,  Grant !  Sammy  and  our  boy." 

Then  the  shepherd  felt  a  heavy  hand  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  a  voice,  that  had  in  it  something  new  and 
strange,  said,  "Dad, — my  brother, — Daniel,  I — I 
ain't  got  no  education,  an'  I — don't  know  rightly  how 
to  say  it — but,  Daniel,  what  these  hills  have  been  to 
you,  you — you  have  been  to  me.  It's  sure  God's 
way,  Daniel.  Let's — let's  go  to  the  boy." 


CHAPTEE  XLIL 
THE  WAY  OF  THE  LOWER  TRAIL. 

;IX — the — light,  as  it  was — please  ?  That's 
— it.  Thank  you,  Doctor.  How  beau 
tiful  she  is — how  beautiful !"  He  seemed 
to  gather  strength,  and  looked  carefully 
into  the  face  of  each  member  of  the  little  group  about 
the  bed ;  the  shepherd,  Old  Matt,  Aunt  Mollie,  Pete, 
and  the  physician.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  back  to 
the  painting.  To  the  watchers,  the  girl  in  the  pic 
ture,  holding  her  brimming  cup,  seemed  to  smile  back 
again. 

"I  loved  her — I  loved — her.  She  was  my  natural 
mate — my  other  self.  I  belonged  to  her — she  to  mec 
I — I  can't  tell  you  of  that  summer — when  we  were 
together — alone  in  the  hills — the  beautiful  hills — 
away  from  the  sham  and  the  ugliness  of  the  world 
that  men  have  made.  The  beauty  and  inspiration 
of  it  all  I  put  into  my  pictures,  and  I  knew  because 
of  that  they  were  good — I  knew  they  would  win  a 
place  for  me — and — they  did.  Most  of  all — I  put 
it  there,"  (He  pointed  to  the  painting  on  the  wall) 
"and  the  crowd  saw  it  and  felt  it,  and  did  not  know 
what  it  was.  But  I  knew — I  knew — all  the  time,  X 

320 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

knew.  Oh ! — if  that  short  summer  could  have  been 
lengthened — into  years,  what  might  I  not  have  done  ? 
Oh,  God !  That  men — can  be — so  blind — so  blind !" 

For  a  time,  he  lav  exhausted,  his  face  still  turned 
toward  the  picture,  but  with  eyes  closed  as  though  he 
dreamed.  Then  suddenly,  he  started  up  again,  rais 
ing  himself  on  his  elbows,  his  eyes  opened  wide,  and 
on  his  face  a  look  of  wondering  gladness.  They  drew 
near. 

"Do — do — you — hear?  She  is  calling — she  is 
calling  again.  Yes — sweetheart — yes,  dear.  I — I 
am — com — " 

Then,  Old  Matt  and  Aunt  Mollie  led  the  shepherd 
from  the  room. 

And  this  way  runs  the  trail  that  follows  the  lower 
level,  where  those  who  travel,  as  they  go,  look  always 
over  their  shoulders  with  eyes  of  dread,  and  the 
gloomy  shadows  gather  long  before  the  day  is  done. 


CHAPTEK  XLIII. 
POOR  PETE. 

HEY  buried  the  artist  in  the  cave  as  he 
had  directed,  close  under  the  wall  on  the 
ledge  above  the  canon,  with  no  stone  or 
mark  of  any  sort  to  fix  the  place.  The 
old  mine  which  he  had  discovered  was  reached  by  one 
of  the  side  passages  far  below  in  the  depth  of  the 
mountain.  The  grave  would  never  be  disturbed. 

For  two  weeks  longer,  Dr.  Coughlan  staid  with 
his  friend;  out  on  the  hills  with  him  all  day,  help 
ing  to  cook  their  meals  at  the  ranch,  or  sitting  on  the 
porch  at  the  Matthews  place  when  the  day  was  gone. 
When  the  time  finally  came  that  he  must  go,  the  little 
physician  said,  as  he  grasped  the  shepherd's  hand, 
"You're  doing  just  right,  Daniel ;  just  right.  Always 
did;  always  did.  Blast  it  all!  I  would  stay,  too, 
but  what  would  Sarah  and  the  girls  do  ?  I'll  come 
again  next  spring,  Daniel,  sure,  sure,  if  I'm  alive. 
Don't  worry,  no  one  will  ever  know.  Blast  it  all ! 
I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  Daniel.  Don't  like  it  at  all. 
But  you  are  right,  right,  Daniel." 

The  old  scholar  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  cabin 
to  watch  the  wagon  as  it  disappeared  in  the  forest. 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  heard  it  rattle  across  the  creek  bottom  below  the 
ruined  cabin  under  the  bluff.  He  waited  until  from 
away  up  on  Compton  Ridge  the  sound  of  wheels  came 
to  him  on  the  breeze  that  slipped  down  the  mountain 
side.  Still  he  waited,  listening,  listening,  until  there 
were  only  the  voices  of  the  forest  and  the  bleating 
|  of  the  sheep  in  the  corral.  Slipping  a  book  in  his 
pocket,  and  taking  a  luncheon  for  himself  and  Pete 
he  opened  the  corral  gate  and  followed  his  flock  to 
the  hills. 

All  that  summer  Pete  was  the  shepherd's  constant 
companion.  At  first  he  seemed  not  to  understand. 
Frequently  he  would  start  off  suddenly  for  the  cave, 
only  to  return  after  a  time,  with  that  look  of  trouble 
upon  his  delicate  face.  Mr.  Howitt  tried  to  help  the 
boy,  and  he  appeared  gradually  to  realize  in  part. 
Once  he  startled  his  old  friend  by  saying  quietly, 
"When  are  you  goin',  Dad  ?" 

"Going  where?  Where  does  Pete  think  Dad  is 
going  ?" 

The  boy  was  lying  on  his  back  on  the  grassy  hill 
side  watching  the  clouds.  He  pointed  upward, 
"There,  where  he  went;  up  there  in  the  white  hills. 
Pete  knows." 

The  other  looked  long  at  the  lad  before  answering 
quietly,  "'Dad  does  not  know  when  he  will  go.  But 
he  is  ready  any  time,  now." 

"Pete  says  better  not  wait  long,  Dad;  'cause  Pete 
333 


THE  SHEPHEKD  OF  THE  HILLS 

he's  a  goin'  an'  course  when  he  goes  I've  got  to  go 
'long.  Do  you  reckon  Dad  can  see  Pete  when  he  is 
up  there  in  them  white  hills  ?  Some  folks  used  to 
laugh  a«t  Pete  when  he  told  about  the  white  hills,  the 
flower  things,  the  sky  things,  an'  the  moonlight  things 
that  play  in  the  mists.  An'  once  a  fellow  called  Pete 
a  fool,  an'  Young  Matt  he  whipped  him  awful.  But 
folks  wasn't  really  to  blame,  'cause  they  couldn't  see 
'em'.  That's  what  he  said.  An'  he  knew,  'cause  he 
could  see  'em  too.  But  Aunt  Mollie,  an'  Uncle  Matt, 
an'  you  all,  they  don't  never  laugh.  They  just  say, 
'Pete  knows.'  But  they  couldn't  see  the  flower  thinga, 
or  the  tree  things  neither.  Only  he  could  see." 

The  summer  passed,  and,  when  the  blue  gray  haze 
took  on  the  purple  touch  and  all  the  woods  and  hills 
were  dressed  with  cloth  of  gold,  Pete  went  from  the 
world  in  which  he  had  never  really  belonged,  nor  had 
been  at  home.  Mr.  Howitt,  writing  to  Dr.  Coughlan 
of  the  boy's  death,  said : 

"Here  and  there  among  men,  there  are  those  who 
pause  in  the  hurried  rush  to  listen  to  the  call  of  a  life 
that  is  more  real.  How  often  have  we  seen  them, 
David,  jostled  and  ridiculed  by  their  fellows,  pushed 
aside  and  forgotten,  as  incompetent  or  unworthy.  He 
who  sees  and  hears  too  much  is  cursed  for  a  dreamer, 
a  fanatic,  or  a  fool,  by  the  mad  mob,  who,  having 
eyes,  see  not,  ears  and  hear  not,  and  refuse  to  under 
stand. 

334 


THE    SHEPHERD    OF    THE   HILLS 

•*We  build  temples  and  churches,  but  will  not  wor 
ship  in  them;  we  hire  spiritual  advisers,  but  refuse 
to  heed  them ;  we  buy  bibles,  but  will  not  read  them  ; 
believing  in  God,  we  do  not  fear  Him ;  acknowledg 
ing  Christ,  we  neither  follow  nor  obey  Him.  Only 
when  we  can  no  longer  strive  in  the  battle  for  earthly 
honors  or  material  wealth,  do  we  turn  to  the  unseen 
more  enduring  things  of  life;  and,  with  ears 
deafened  by  the  din  of  selfish  war  and  cruel  violence, 
and  eyes  blinded  by  the  glare  of  passing  pomp  and 
.  we  strive  to  hear  and  see  the  things  we  have  so 

i  g  Defused  to  consider. 

"Pete  knew  a  world  unseen  by  us,  and  we.  there 
fore,  fancied  ourselves  wiser  than  he.  The  wind  in 
ine  pines,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  the  murmur  of  the 
brook,  the  growl  of  the  thunder,  and  the  voices  of  the 
night  were  all  understood  and  answered  by  him.  The 
fiowers,  the  trees,  the  rocks,  tlie  hills,  the  clouds  were 
to  him,  not  lifeless  things,  but  living  friends,  who 
laughed  and  wept  with  him  as  he  was  gay  or  sor 
rowful. 

''Poor  Pete.'  we  said.  Was  he  in  truth,  David, 
poorer  or  richer  than  we?" 

They  laid  the  boy  beside  his  mother  under  the 
pines  on  the  hills;  the  pines  that  showed  so  dark 
against  the  sky  when  the  sun  was  down  behind  the 
ridge.  And  over  his  bed  the  wild  vines  lovingly  wove 
a  coverlid  of  softest  green,  while  all  his  woodland 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

friends  gathered  about  his  couch.  Forest  and  liil; 
and  flower  and  cloud  sang  the  songs  he  loved.  A1F 
day  the  sunlight  laid  its  wealth  in  hars  of  gold  at  his? 
feet,  and  at  night  the  moonlight  things  and  the 
shadow  things  came  out  to  play. 

Summer  and  autumn  slipped  away;  the  winter 
passed ;  spring  came,  with  all  the  wonder  of  the  resur 
rection  of  flower  and  leaf  and  blade.  So  peace  and 
quiet  came  again  into  the  shepherd's  life.  When  no 
answer  to  his  letter  was  received,  and  the  doctor  did 
not  return  as  he  had  promised,  the  old  man  knew 
that  the  last  link  connecting  him  with  the  world  waa 
broken* 


358 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 
THE  TRAIL  ON  THE  SUNLIT  HILLS, 

EX  Young  Matt  first  knew  that  Sammy 
7/  \Y7\\  had  sent  Ollie  back  to  the  city  with  no 
l\  Jl  Prom^se  to  follow,  he  took  to  the  woods, 

V^OC^f  an(j  returned  only  after  miles  of  tramp 
ing  over  the  wildest,  roughest  part  of  the  country. 
The  big  fellow  said  no  word,  but  on  his  face  was  a 
look  that  his  father  understood,  and  the  old  moun 
taineer  felt  his  own  blood  move  more  quickly  at  the 
sight. 

But  when  Sammy  with  her  books  was  fully  estab 
lished  in  the  Matthews  home,  and  Young  Matt 
seemed  always,  as  the  weeks  went  by,  to  find  her  read 
ing  things  that  he  could  not  understand,  he  was  made 
to  realize  more  fully  what  her  studies  with  the  shep 
herd  meant.  He  came  to  feel  that  she  had  already 
crossed  the  threshold  into  that  world  where  Mr. 
Howitt  lived.  And,  thinking  that  he  himself  could 
never  enter,  he  grew  lonely  and  afraid. 

With  the  quickness  that  was  so  marked  in  her  char 
acter,  Sammy  grasped  the  meaning  of  his  trouble 
almost  before  Young  Matt  himself  knew  fully  what 
it  was.  Then  the  girl,  with  much  care  and  tact,  set 

337 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

ibout  helping  him  to  see  the  truths  which  the  shejx 
herd  had  revealed  to  her. 

All  through  the  summer  and  fall,  when  the  day's 
work  was  done,  or  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  they  werc 
together,  and  gradually  the  woods  and  the  hills,  with 
all  the  wild  life  that  is  in  them,  began  to  have  for 
the  young  man  a  new  meaning ;  or,  rather,  he  learned 
little  by  little  to  read  the  message  that  lay  on  the 
open  pages;  first  a  word  here  and  there,  then  sen 
tences,  then  paragraphs,  and  soon  he  was  reading 
alone,  as  he  tramped  the  hills  for  stray  stock,  or 
worked  in  the  mountain  field.  The  idle  days  of  win 
ter  and  the  long  evenings  were  spent  in  reading  aloud 
from  the  books  that  had  come  to  mean  most  to  her. 

So  she  led  him  on  slowly,  along  the  way  that  her 
teacher  had  pointed  out  to  her,  but  always  as  they 
went,  he  saw  her  going  before,  far  ahead,  and  he 
knew  that  in  the  things  that  men  call  education,  he 
could  never  hope  to  stand  by  her  side.  But  he  was 
beginning  to  ask,  are  there  not  after  all  things  that 
lie  still  deeper  in  life  than  even  these  ? 

Often  he  would  go  to  his  old  friend  in  the  Hollow 
with  some  thought,  and  the  shepherd,  seeing  how  it 
was,  would  smile  as  he  helped  the  lad  on  his  way. 
The  scholar  looked  forward  with  confidence  to  the 
time  when  young  Matt  would  discover  for  himself, 
as  Sammy  had  found  for  herself,  that  the  only  com 
mon  ground  whereon  men  and  women  may  meet  ic 

338 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

safety  is  the  ground  of  their  manhood  and  woman 
hood. 

And  so  it  was,  on  that  spring  morning  when  the 
young  giant  felt  the  red  life  throbbing  strongly  in 
his  great  limbs,  as  he  -followed  his  team  to  and  fro 
across  the  field.  And  in  his  voice,  as  he  shouted 
to  his  horses  at  the  end  of  the  furrow,  there  was  some 
thing  under  the  words,  something  of  a  longing,  some 
thing  also  of  a  challenge. 

Sammy  was  going  to  spend  the  day  with  her 
friends  on  Jake  Creek.  She  had  not  been  to  see 
Mandy  since  the  night  of  her  father's  death.  As 
she  went,  she  stopped  at  the  lower  end  of  the  field  to 
shout  a  merry  word  to  the  man  with  the  plow,  and  it 
w  as  sometime  later  when  the  big  fellow  again  started 
his  team.  The  challenge  in  his  tone  had  grown 
boldei. 

Sammy  returned  that  afternoon  in  time  for  the 
evening  meal,  and  Aunt  Mollie  thought,  as  the  girl 
came  up  the  walk,  that  the  young  woman  had  never 
looked  so  beautiful  "Why,  honey,"  she  said,  "you're 
just  a  bubblin'  over  with  life.  Your  cheeks  are  as 
rosy,  your  eyes  are  as  sparklin',  you're  fairly  shinin' 
all  over.  Your  ride  sure  done  you  good.'' 

The  young  woman  replied  with  a  hug  that  made 
lie:*  admirer  gasp.  "Law,  child;  you're  strong  as  a 
young  panther.  You  walk  like  one  too;  so  kind  of 
strong,  easy  like." 

339 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

The  girl  laughed.  "I  hope  I  don't  impress  every 
body  that  way,  Aunt  Mollie.  I  don't  believe  I  want 
to  be  like  a  panther.  I'd  rather  be  like — like — " 

"Like  what,  child  ?" 

"Like  you,  just  like  you;  the  best,  the  very  best 
woman  in  the  whole  world,  because  you've  got  the 
best  and  biggest  heart."  She  looked  back  over  her 
shoulder  laughing,  as  she  ran  into  the  house. 

When  Young  Matt  came  in  from  the  field,  Sammy 
went  out  to  the  barn,  while  he  unharnessed  his  team. 
"Are  you  very  tired  tonight  ?"  she  asked. 

The  big  fellow  smiled,  "Tired?  Me  tired? 
Where  do  you  want  to  go  ?  Haven't  you  ridden 
enough  today?  I  should  think  you'd  be  tired  your 
self." 

"Tired  ?  Me  tired  ?"  said  the  girl.  "I  don't  want 
to  ride.  I  want  to  walk.  It's  such  a  lovely  evening, 
and  there's  going  to  be  a  moon.  I  have  been  think 
ing  all  day  that  I  would  like  to  walk  over  home  after 
supper,  if  you  cared  to  go." 

That  night  the  work  within  the  house  and  the 
chores  about  the  barn  were  finished  in  a  remarkably 
short  time.  The  young  man  and  woman  started  down 
the  Old  Trail  like  two  school  children,  while  the 
father  and  mother  sat  on  the  porch  and  heard  their 
voices  die  away  on  the  mountain  side  below. 

The  girl  went  first  along  the  little  path,  moving 
with  that  light,  sure  step  that  belongs  only  to  perfect 

340 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

health,  the  health  of  the  woods  and  hills.  The  man 
followed,  walking  with  the  same  sure,  easy  step; 
strength  and  power  revealed  in  every  movement  of 
his  body.  Two  splendid  creatures  they  were — mas 
terpieces  of  the  Creator's  handiwork;  made  by  Him 
who  created  man,  male  and  female,  and  bade  them 
have  dominion  "over  every  living  thing  that  moveth 
upon  the  earth ;"  kings  by  divine  right. 

In  the  belt  of  timber,  wrhere  the  trail  to  the  ranch 
branches  off,  they  met  the  shepherd  on  his  way  to 
the  house  for  an  evening  visit.  The  old  man  paused 
only  long  enough  to  greet  them,  and  pushed  on  up 
the  hill,  for  he  saw  by  their  faces  that  the  time  was 
come. 

Sammy  had  grown  very  quiet  when  they  rounded 
the  shoulder  of  Dewey,  and  they  went  in  silence  down 
to  the  cabin  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  mountain. 
The  girl  asked  Young  Matt  to  wait  for  her  at  the 
gate,  and,  going  to  the  house,  she  entered  alone. 

A  short  time  she  remained  in  the  familiar  rooms, 
then,  slipping  out  through  the  rear  door,  ran  through 
the  woods  to  the  little  glen  back  of  the  house.  Drop 
ping  beside  the  mound  she  buried  her  face  in  the  cool 
grass,  as  she  whispered,  "Oh,  Daddy,  Daddy  Jim ! 
I  wish  you  were  here  tonight ;  this  night  that  means 
so  much  to  me.  Do  you  know  how  happy  I  am, 
Daddy  ?  Do  you  know,  I  wonder  ?"  The  twilight 
deepened,  "I  must  go  now,  Daddy ;'  I  must  go  to  him. 

341 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

You  told  me  you  would  trust  me  anywhere  with  him 
He  is  waiting  for  me,  now ;  but  I  wish — oh,  I  wish 
that  you  were  here  tonight,  Daddy  Jim!" 

Quickly  she  made  her  way  hack  to  the  cabin, 
passed  through  the  house,  and  rejoined  Young  Matt. 
The  two  returned  silently  up  the  mountain  side,  to 
the  higher  levels,  where  the  light  still  lingered, 
though  the  sun  was  down.  At  the  Lookout  they 
stopped. 

"We'll  wait  for  the  moon,  here,"  she  said;  and 
so  seated  on  a  big  rock,  they  watched  the  last  of  the 
evening  go  out  from  the  west.  From  forest  depth 
and  mountain  side  came  the  myriad  voices  of  Na 
ture's  chorus,  blending  softly  in  the  evening  hymn ; 
and,  rising  clear  above  the  low  breathed  tones,  yet  in 
perfect  harmony,  came  a  whip-poor-will's  plaintive 
call  floating  up  from  the  darkness  below;  the  sweet 
cooing  of  a  wood-dove  in  a  tree  on  the  ridge,  and 
the  chirping  of  a  cricket  in  a  nearby  crevice  of  the 
ledge.  Like  shadowy  spirits,  the  bats  flitted  here  and 
there  in  the  gathering  gloom.  The  two  on  the  moun 
tain's  shoulder  felt  themselves  alone  above  it  all; 
above  it  all,  yet  still  a  part  of  all. 

Then  the  moon  looked  over  the  mountain  behind 
them  turning  Mutton  Hollow  into  a  wondrous  sea 
of  misty  light  out  of  which  the  higher  hills  lifted 
their  heads  like  fairy  islands.  The  girl  spoke, 
"Come,  Matt ;  we  must  go  now.  Help  me  down." 


•'We'll  wait  for  the  moon,  here."      Page  340 

Tht  Shepherd  of  the  hilb 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  slipped  from  his  seat  and  stood  beside  the  rock 
with  uplifted  arms.  Sammy  leaned  forward  and 
placed  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders.  He  felt  her 
breath  upon  his  forehead.  The  next  instant  he  held 
her  close. 

So  they  went  home  along  the  trail  that  is  nobody- 
knows  how  old  and  the  narrow  path  that  was  made 
by  those  who  TA  alked  one  before  the  other,  they  found 
wide  enough  for  two. 

Dad  Howitt,  returning  to  the  ranch,  saw  them 
coming  so  in  the  moonlight,  and  slipped  aside  from 
the  path  into  the  deeper  shadows.  As  they  passed, 
the  old  shepherd,  scholar  and  poet  stood  with  bowed, 
uncovered  head.  When  they  were  gone  and  their 
low  voices  were  no  longer  heard,  he  said  aloud,  '"What 
God  hath  joined;  what  God  hath  joined/' 

And  this  way  runs  the  trail  that  lies  along  the 
higher,  sunlit  hills  where  those  who  journey  see  afar 
and  the  light  lingers  even  when  the  day  is  done. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
SOME  YEARS  LATER. 


artist,  searching  for 

A  \  fields,  found  his  way  into  the  Ozark 
country.  One  day,  as  he  painted  in  the 
hills,  a  flock  of  sheep  came  over  the  ridge 
through  a  low  gap,  and  worked  slowly  along  the 
mountain  side.  A  few  moments  later,  the  worker  at 
the  easel  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  canvas  to  find  him 
self  regarded  by  an  old  man  in  the  dress  of  a  native. 

"Hello,  uncle.  Fine  day/'  said  the  artist  shortly, 
his  eyes  again  upon  his  picture. 

"The  God  of  these  hills  gives  us  many  such,  young 
sir,  and  all  His  days  are  good." 

The  painter's  hand  paused  between  palette  and 
canvas,  and  his  face  was  turned  toward  the  speaker 
in  wonder.  Every  word  was  perfect  in  accent  of  the 
highest  culture,  and  the  deep  musical  tone  of  the 
voice  was  remarkable  in  one  with  the  speaker's  snowy 
hair  and  beard.  The  young  man  arose  to  his  feet. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  thought  —  "  He  hesi 
tated,  as  he  again  took  in  the  rude  dress  of  the  other. 
The  brown  eyes,  under  their  white  shaggy  brows, 
lighted  with  good  nature.  "You  mean,  young  sir, 
that  you  did  not  think.  ;Tls  the  privilege  of  youth; 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

make  the  most  of  it.  Very  soon  old  age  will  rob 
you  of  your  freedom,  and  force  you  to  think,  whether 
you  will  or  no.  Your  greeting  under  the  circum 
stance  is  surely  excusable.  It  is  I  who  should  beg 
pardon,  for  I  have  interrupted  your  study,  and  I 
have  no  excuse ;  neither  my  youth  nor  my  occupation 
will  plead  for  me." 

The  charm  of  his  voice  and  manner  were  irresisti 
ble.  The  painter  stepped  forward  with  outstretched 
hand,  "Indeed,  sir;  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you. 
I  am  here  for  the  summer  from  Chicago.  My  camp 
is  over  there." 

The  other  grasped  the  offered  hand  cordially,  "I 
am  Daniel  Howitt,  young  sir;  from  the  sheep  ranch 
in  Mutton  Hollow.  Dad  Howitt,  the  people  call  me. 
So  you  see  you  were  not  far  wrong  when  you  hailed 
me  'Uncle.'  Uncle  and  Dad  are  'sure  close  kin/  as 
Preachin'"  Bill  would  say. 

Both  men  laughed,  and  the  painter  offered  his 
folding  easel  chair.  "Thank  you,  no.  Here  is  a 
couch  to  which  I  am  more  accustomed.  I  will  rest 
here,  if  you  please."  The  old  man  stretched  himself 
upon  the  grassy  slope.  "Do  you  like  my  hills  ?"  he 
asked.  "But  I  am  sure  you  do,"  he  added,  as  his  eye 
dwelt  fondly  upon  the  landscape. 

"Ah,  you  are  the  owner  of  this  land,  then  ?  I  was 
wondering  who — ' ' 

"Xo,   no,   young   sir,"   the   old   man   interrupted, 
345 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

laughing  again.  "Others  pay  the  taxes;  these  hills 
belong  to  me  only  as  they  belong  to  all  who  have  the 
grace  to  love  them.  They  will  give  yon  great  treas 
ure,  that  you  may  give  again  to  others,  who  have  not 
your  good  strength  to  escape  from  the  things  that  men 
make  and  do  in  the  restless  world  over  there.  One 
of  your  noble  craft  could  scarcely  fail  to  find  the  good 
things  God  has  written  on  this  page  of  His  great 
book.  Your  brothers  need  the  truths  that  you  will 
read  here ;  unless  the  world  has  greatly  changed." 

aYou  are  not  then  a  native  of  this  country  ?" 

"I  was  a  native  of  that  world  yonder,  young  sir. 
Before  your  day,  they  knew  me ;  but  long  since,  they 
have  forgotten.  When  I  died  there,  I  was  born  again 
in  these  mountains.  And  so,"  he  finished  with  a 
smile,  "I  am,  as  you  see,  a  native.  It  is  long  now 
since  I  met  one  from  beyond  the  ndges.  I  will  not 
likely  meet  another." 

"I  wonder  that  others  have  not  discovered  the  real 
beauty  of  the  Ozarks,"  remarked  the  painter. 

The  old  shepherd  answered  softly,  "One  did." 
Then  rising  to  his  feet  and  pointing  to  Roark  val 
ley,  he  said,  "Before  many  years  a  railroad  will  find 
its  way  yonder.  Then  many  will  come,  and  the  beau 
tiful  hills  that  have  been  my  strength  and  peace  will 
become  the  haunt  of  careless  idlers  and  a  place  of 
revelry.  I  am  glad  that  I  shall  not  be  here.  But  I 
must  not  keep  you  longer  from  your  duties." 

346 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  shall  see  you  again,  shall  I  not  ?"  The  painter 
was  loath  to  let  him  go. 

"More  often  than  will  be  good  for  your  picture,  I 
fear.  You  must  work  hard,  young  sir,  while  the 
book  of  God  is  still  open,  and  Go<Vs  message  is  easily 
read.  When  the  outside  world  comes,  men  will  turn 
the  page,  and  you  may  lose  the  place." 

After  that  they  met  often,  and  one  day  the  old 
man  led  the  artist  to  where  a  big  house  looked  down 
upon  a  ridge  encircled  valley.  Though  built  of  logs 
without,  the  house  within  was  finished  and  furnished 
in  excellent  taste.  To  his  surprise,  the  painter  found 
one  room  lined  with  shelves,  and  upon  the  shelves 
the  best  things  that  men  have  written  for  their  fellows. 
In  another  room  was  a  piano.  The  floors  were  covered 
with  rugs.  Draperies  and  hangings  softened  the 
atmosphere;  and  the  walls  were  hung  with  pictures; 
not  many,  but  good  and  true ;  pictures  that  had  power 
over  those  who  looked  upon  them.  The  largest  paint 
ing  hung  in  the  library  and  was  veiled. 

"My  daughter,  Mrs.  Matthews,"  said  the  old  shep 
herd,  as  he  presented  the  stranger  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house.  In  all  his  search  for  beauty,  never 
had  the  artist  looked  upon  such  a  form  and  such  a 
face.  It  was  a  marvelous  blending  of  the  physical 
with  the  intellectual  and  spiritual.  A  firm  step  was 
heard  on  the  porch.  "My  husband,"  said  the  lady. 
And  the  stranger  rose  to  greet — the  woman's  mate, 


THE  SHEPHERD  OJB    THE  HILLS 

The  children  of  this  father  a*«d  mother  were  like 
them;  or,  as  the  visitor  afterwards  said  in  his  ex 
travagant  way,  "like  young  gods  for  beauty  and 
strength." 

The  next  summer  the  painter  went  again  to  the 
Ozarks.  Even  as  he  was  greeted  by  the  strong  master 
of  the  hills  and  his  charming  wife,  there  lell  upon 
his  ears  a  dull  report  as  of  distant  cannon;  then  an 
other,  and  another.  They  led  him  across  the  yard, 
and  there  to  the  north  on  the  other  side  of  Roark, 
men  were  tearing  up  the  mountain  to  make  way  for 
the  railroad.  As  they  looked,  another  blast  sent  the 
rocks  flying,  while  the  sound  rolled  and  echoed 
through  the  peaceful  hills. 

The  artist  turned  to  his  friends  with  questioning 
eyes;  "Mr.  Howitt  said  it  would  come.  Is  he — is 
he  well?" 

Mrs.  Matthews  answered  softly,  "Dad  left  us  while 
the  surveyors  were  at  work.  He  sleeps  yonder." 
She  pointed  to  Dewey  Bald. 

Then  they  went  into  the  library,  where  the  large 
picture  was  unveiled.  When  the  artist  saw  it,  he 
exclaimed,  "Mad  Howard's  lost  masterpiece!  How 
— where  did  you  find  it  2" 

"It  was  Father  Howitt's  request  that  I  tel1  you  the 
story,"  Sammy  replied. 

And  then  she  told  the  artist  a  part  of  that  which  I 
have  set  down  here. 

THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


IN  STACKS    BtC.CIR.AU6  2278 

SENT  ONJLL 


APR  7    19611       mrtOM,a,. 

:  -  •.  )        JUW  u 

G*«'-"        I           

"rea'i^7 

MAR 

22  196848 

SE^T  ON  n  i 

•  •  «B  no   '  •'•  "  '/ 

0 

JAN  0  3 

MAR 

8'68-12M 

U.  C.BEri,,.  .._;• 

m. 

131974  68 

MAfi   1274  H 

PCD  «*-  W 

,' 

LD  21A-50m-12,'60 
(B6221slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  68308 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


